JOHN  MARCH 


l?x  . 


J 


T     i^^ 


\ 


LEGACY. 


A  NOVEL. 


I 


-C 


'^' 


I 


S^j^ 


!> 


By  Miss  M.  E.  BRADDON, 

ACTBOR   OF 

"AURORA    FLOYD,"   "ELEANOR'S   VICTORY,"    "LADY 
AUDLEY'S  SECRET,"  kc. 


^♦-^ 


RICHMOND: 

WEST  (k  JOHNSTON,  PUBLISHERS, 
145  MAIN  STREKT. 


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JOHI  MAROHiniT'S  L 


A  NOVEL 


B\   Mi.ss  M    K.  BRA.DDON. 

AUTHOR   OF 

''AURORA  FLOYD,"   ''LADY  ALIDLEY'S  SECRET; 


RICHMOND :      1 
^    WKST  &  JOHIS^STON,  Publishers. 

145  MAIN  STREET. 

1865. 


-4 


GEO.    J'.    KVANS    &    CO.,    PRIXTF.RS, 

wiiK.  nriLDiKc, 

RICHMOND,  VIRGINIA. 


k. 


JOHN  MARCHMOxNT'S  LE(}ACY; 


'Ji^- 


CHAPTER  1. 

THE    MAH    WITH    THK    BAVXKR. 

Tuchistorj  of  Edward  Arundel,  second  son  of 
Christopher  Arundel  Dangerfield  Arundel,  of  Dan- 
gcrfield  Park,  Devonshire,  began  on  a  certain 
dark  winter's  night  upon  which  the  lad,  still  a 
school-boy,  went  with  his  cousin,  Martin  .Mosiyn, 
to  witness  a  blank-verse  tragedy  at  one  of  the 
London  theatres. 

There  are  few  men  who,  looking  back  at  the 
long  story  of  their  lives, cannot  point  to  one  pai;e 
in  the  record  of  the  past  at  which  the  actual  his- 
tory of  life  began.  The  page  may  come  in  the  very 
middle  of  the  boolc  perhajis  ;  pcrbaps  .-^liuost  at. 
the  end.  But  lot  it  conic  where  it  wiM,  it  1^.  after 
all,  only  the  actual  conmienccinent.  At  aii  ap- 
pointed hour  io  man's  existence  the  overture 
which  has  been  jroing  on  ever  since,  lie  was  born, 
is  brought  to  a  sudden  close  by  the  sharp  vibra- 
tion of  the  proinplor's  signal-bell,  ihe  curtain 
rises,  and  ibedianiii  of  life  begins. 

The  story  of  young  Aruudcrs  life  began  when 
he  was  a  light-hearted,  heedless  lad  of  seventeen, 
newly  escaped  foi-  a  luief  inicrral  from  the  care 
of  his  pastors  and  masters. 

The  lad  had  couie  to  iiOndun'on  a  Chri.stnias 
vi^it  to  his  father's  sisler,  a  guod-natured  widow, 
with  a  great  many  sons  and  daughters,  and  an  in- 
'•ome  only  larg«  enough  to  enable  her  to  keep  tiie 
appearance*  of  wealth  essential  to  the  family 
pride  of  one  of  the  Arundels  of  Dangerfield. 

Laura  Ariimlcl  had  married  a  Colonel  Mostyn, 
of  th«  tast  India  Company's  service,  and  had  re- 
turned from  India  after  a  wandering  hie  of  some 
years,  leaving  ber  dead  husband  behind  her,  and 
bringing  awny  with  lier  five  daughters  and  three 
sons,  most  of  \v!iom  bad  been  born  under  canvas 

Mrs.  Mostyn  bore  her  troubles  bravely,  and  con- 
trived to  do  more  vvilb  her  pension,  and  an  riddi- 
tional  income  of  tliree  hundred  a  year  from  a 
small  fortune  of  iier  own,  than  the  most  consum- 
mate womanly  management  can  often  achieve. 
Her  hou^e  in  -Montague  Square  was  splendidly 
furnished,  her  daughters  were  exquisitely  dressed, 
her  sons  sensibly  educated,  her  dinners  well  cook- 
ed. She  was  not  an  agreeable  woman;  she  was, 
Kerhaps,  if  anything,  too  sensible — so  very  scnsi- 
le  as  to  be  obviously  intolerant  of  any  thing  like 
folly  in  others.  She  was  a  good  mother,  but  by 
no  means  an  indulgent  one.  She  expected  her 
sons  to  succeed  in  life,  and  her  daughters  to  marry 
rich  men;  and  would  have  had  little  patience 
with  any  disappointment  in  either  of  these  rea- 
sonable expectations.  She  wa.s  attached  to  her 
brother,  Christopher  Arundel,  and  she  was  very 
well  pleased  to  spend  the  autumn  months  at  D.in- 
gerfield,  where  the  hunting  breakfasts  gave  her 
daughters  an  excellent  platform  for  the  exhibi- 
tion of  charming  demi-tollets  and  social  and  do- 
mestic graces,  perhaps  more  dangerous  to  the  sus- 
ceptible hearts  of  rich  young  squires  than  the 
fascinationt  of  a  v»Ut  d  deux  tempi  or  an  Italian 
■Moa. 


But  the  same  ^drs.  Mostyn,  who  nev«r  forgot  to 
keep  up  her  correspondence   with   the  owner  of 
Dangerfield   Park,  utterly  ignored  the  existcnc* 
of  another  brother,  a  certa^in  Hubert  Arundel,  who 
had,  perhaps,  much  more  need  of  her   sisterly 
friendship  than  the  wealthy   Devonshire  squire. 
Heaven  knows,  the  world  seemed  a  lonely  place 
to  this  younger  son,  -who  had  been   educated  for 
:  the  Church,  and  was  fain  to  content  himself  with 
a  scanty  living  in  one  of  the  dullest  and  dampest 
towns  in   fenny  Lincolnshire.      His  sister  might 
have  very  easily  made  lilo  much  more  pleasant 
to  the  Rector  of  Swanipington  and  his  only  dauch- 
ter;  but  Hubert   Arundei  was  a  great  deal  too 
^  proud   to  remind   her   of  tliis.     if  Mrs.   Mostyn 
cliose  to  forget  him — the  brother  and  sister  had 
;,becn  loving  friends  and  dear  companions  long  ago 
under  the  beeches  at  Dangerfield — she  was  wel- 
;  come  to  do  so.     She  was  better  oiT  than  him;  and 
It  is  to  be  remarked  that  if  A's  •income  is  threa 
)  hundred  a  year,  and  B's  a  tliousand,  the  dunces 
are  as  seven  to  three  that   It   will    forget   any  old 
,  inlimaey  that  may  liiive  cxisltd  between  himsrlf 
',  and  A.    Huticrt  Arundel  had  been  wild  at  college, 
'  and  had  put  his  autograph  across  ao  many  oblung 
;  siijis  of  blue  paper,  acknowledging  value  receiv- 
ed \tbat    had  been  only  half  received,  that  by  the 
'  lime  the  claims  of  all  thelioldcrs  of  these  por- 
;  tentous  morsels  of  stamped  paper  had  been  satis- 
;  fied,  the  younger  son's  fortune  had  melicd  away, 
■  leaving  its  sometime  po«>cssor  the  happy  owner 
,  of  a  pair  of  ))ointcrs,  a  couple  of  guns  by  crack 
'/  makers,  a  good  many  foils,  siiigle-siicks,  boxijig- 
)  gloveo,  wire  masks,  hasket-hcjinets,  leathern  leg- 
,  guards,  and  other  paraplicrnalia,  a  complete  set 
:  of  the  old  i>poi:li.ng.yara-.inf  from  17'J2to  the  cur- 
\  rent  year,  bound  in  .scarlet  morocco,  several  boxes 
,  of  very  bad  cigars,  a  Scotch  terrier,  and  a  pipe  of 
;  undriiiUabJe  poi t. 

'      Of  all  these  possessions  only  the  undrinkable 

;  port  now  remained  to  show  that  Hubert  .Arundel 

\  had  oni  e  bad  a  decent  younger  son's  Airluiie.  and 

I  had  siicc-'tded  most  admirably  in   making  ducki 

)  and  drakes  of  it.     The  poor  about  8wampington 

believed  in  the  sweet  red  wine,  which  had  been 

;  specially  concocted  for  Israclitish  dealers  in  jew- 

eiry,  cigars,  pictures,  Avines  and  specie.      They 

;  smacked  their  lips  over  the  mysterious  li(|uid,  and 

confidently  affirmed  that  it  did   them  more  pood 

than  all  the  doctor's  stutF  the  parish  apothecary 

'  could  send  them.    Poor  Hubert  Arundel  was  well 

I  content  to  find  that  at  least  this  scanty  crop  of 

;  corn  had  croan  upfioaii  the  wild  oats  he  had  sown 

(  at  Cambridge, 

)  I  have  no  doubt  that  Hubert  Arundel  felt  th* 
i  sting  of  his  only  sister's  neglect,  as  only  a  poor 
'  and  proud  man  can  feel  such  an  insult;  but  h« 
never  let  «ny  confession  of  this  sentiment  escape 
j  his  lips;  and  when  .Mrs.  .Mostyn,  being  seized  with 
j  a  fancy  for  doing  this  forgotten  brother  a  service, 
j  wrote  him  a  letter  of  insolent  advice,  winding  up 
with  an  offer  to  procure  his  only  child  a  situation 
I  as  uursery-governess,  the  Rector  of  Swamping- 
)  ton  only  cruihed  the  miisive  in  bia  atroDg  hand, 


4  JOHN  MARCUMONT\S  LEGACY.        " 

and  flung  it  into  bis  stidy  fire,  with  a  muttered  tion  of  the  audienoc.  I'erhsps  no  brigbttr  face 
exc'arnniion  tt.at  »oun  litd  terribly  like  an  oath.  looked  upward  that  night  to;rard  th«  glare  and 
*A  nitrrfiy-goverricss !'  he  repeated  savagely;  glitter  of  the  great  chandelier  than  that  of  the 
've«;  an  under-paid  drudge,,  to  tcarh  children  fair-haired  lad  in  the  stage-box.  His  candid  blue 
tieir  A  liC,  and  mend  their  frocks  and  make  their  eyes  beamed  with  a'moreradiantsparkle  than  any 
pinafores.  I  s^houkl  like  Mrs.  Moityn  to  talk  to  of  the  myriad  lights  in  the  theatre;  a  nimbus  of 
my  Utile  Livy  for  half  an  hour.  ,J  ihmk  my  girl  golden  hair  shone  about  his  broad  white  forehead; 
would  have  put  tlic  lady  down  so  completely  by  flowing  health,  careless  happiness,  truth,  good 
the  end  of  trial  linie,  that  we  !>ho;;ld  never  ficur  nature,  h»one«ty,  boyish  vivacity,  and  the  courage 
any  more  aho.it  i.urscry-go\crnesses,'  ,  of  a  young  lion — all  were  expressed  in  the  fear- 

Jle  laughed  bitterly  as  he  repeated  the  obnoi-  le»s  smile,  the  frank,  yet  half-defiant  gaze.  Above 
iou<5  [)hriisL';  but  his  laugh  changed  lo  a  sigii.  ,  all,  this  lad  of  seventeen  looked  especially  what 
Wu5  it  (!tranp;c  that  l!ie  fatlier  should  sigh  as  he  he  was — a  thorough  genlleuiau.  Martin  Mostyn 
rememlu-ied  how  he  had  seen  the  awful  hand  of  wss  prim  and  effeminate,  precociously  tired  of 
Death  fall  suddenly  ufiou  younger  and  stronger  life,  precociously  indifferent  to  evary  thing  but 
men  than  himself?  What  if  he  were  to  die,  and  '  his  own  advantage;  but  the  Devonshire  boy's  talk 
leave  his  ctily  child  uiiinnriied  .-  What  would  be-  ,  was  still  fragrant  with  the  fresh  perfume  of  youth 
come  of  her,  with  her  dangerous  gifts,  with  her  ;  and  innocence,  still  gay  with  the  joyous  reckless- 
fatal  dowry  of  beauty,  and  intellect,  and  pride.' '  ness  of  early  boyhood.  He  was  as  impatient  for 
'15iil  she  would  nfc\er  do  any  thing  wrong,'  the  nuisy  panlonuiiic"  orerture,  and  the  bright 
the  f.itiier  thought.  'Her  religious  principles  are  troops  of  fairies  in  petticoats  of  spangled  muslin, 
strong  enough  to  keep  her  riirht  under  any  eireuiu-  \  as  the  most  inreterate  cockney  cooling  his  snub 
stances,  in  spite  of  any  temptation.  Her  sense  •  nose  against  the  iron  railing  of  the  gallery.  He 
of  duty  is  more  powerful  than  any  other  sentiment.  \  was  as  ready  to  fall  in  love  with  the  painted  beauty 
She  woud  never  be  false  to  that;  she  would  never  ^  of  the  ill-paid  ballet  girls,  as  the  reriegt  child 
be  falfc  to  that.'  ;  in  the  wide  circle  of  humanity  about  him.  Fresh, 

In  return  forthe  hospitality  ot'Dangcrfield  Park,  ^  untainted,  unsuspicious,  he  looked  out  atthe  world 
Mrs.  Mostyn  was   in  the   habit   of  opening   her  '  ready  lo  believe  in  every  thing  and  every  body, 
doors  to  either  Chri>toi.lier  Arundel  or  his  sons  '      Mlow  you  do  fidget,  Edward  !'  whispered  Mar- 
whenever  any  of  'ihe  three  cauic  to  London.      Of  !  tin  Mostyn,  peevishly;  'why  don't  you  look  at  the 
c  ursc,   she   infinitely   prcicriTd   seeing    Arthur  /  stage  .=    It's  capital  fun.' 
Arundel,  ti;c  elder  son  and  heir,  seated  at  her  ;      M'un!' 

well-'prvad  table,  and  flirtina;  %vith  one  ^of  his  ;  'Yes;  I  don't  mean  the  tragedy,  you  know;  but 
prctly 'cou.'fins,  ttmn  to  be  bored  with  his  i-aeket^  !  the  supernumeraries.  Did  vou  ever  see  such  an 
)oun.'tr  brother,  a  noisy  lad  of  seventeen,  witn  ;  awkward  set  of  fellows  in  all  your  life  .'  There's 
no  better  prospects  than  a  commission  in  her  Ma-  ;  a  man  ihere  with  weak  legs  and  a  heavy  banner 
jesty's  service,  and  a  hundred  and  lilty  pounds  a  that  I've  been  watching  all  the  evening.  He'« 
year  to  eke  out  his  pay;  but  she  was,  notwith- '  more  fun  than  all  the  rest  of  it  put  together.' 
standing,  graciously  pleased  to  invite  Ldward  to  '  Mr.  Mostyn  being  of  course  much  loo  polite  to 
5pcnd  hi«  Christmas  holidays  in  her  comfortable  point  out  the  man  in  question,  indicated  him  with 
household;  and  it  was  thus  it  came  to  pass  that  a  twitcii  of  his  light  eyebrows;  and  Edward  Arun - 
on  the 'illlh  of  December,  in  the  year  183H,  the  del,  following  that  indication,  singled  out  the 
story  of  Edward  Anindtl's  life  began  in  a  stage- ,  banner-holder  from  a  group  of  soldiers  in  medie- 
box  at  Drury  Lane  Theatre.  ;  val  dress,  who  had  been  standing  wearily  enough 

The  box  had  been  M.nl  to  Mrs.  Mostyn  by  the  )  up<m  one  side  of  the  stage  during  a  long  strictly 
fashioifable  editor.of  a  fashionable  newspaper;  ;  private  and  confidential  dialogue  between  the 
bill  that  lady  and  her  daughters  being  previously  princely  hero  of  the  tragedy  and  one  of  his  ac- 
engaged,  had  pcrii.iliud  the  two  boys  to  avail  commodating  satellites.  The  lad  uttered  a  cry  of 
IheiMselves  of  the  e.hlorial  privilege.  surprise  as  he  looked  at  the  weak-legeed  banner- 

Ihe  tragedy  was  the  dull  production  of  a  di>-  '  holder, 
tinguish.d  literary  amateur,  and  even-  the  great        Mr.  Mostvn  turned  upon  his  cousin  with  some 
aciot  who  |>l;i>ed   the   pmu  ijial  character  could    vexation. 

nolinakc  the  peironnancepaitie..larly  enlivening         'I  can't   hel|.  it,  Martin,'     exclaimed   youne 
He  ce.iainy  <ii'led   in    impres.«ing  Mr.  Edward    Arundel;   'i  can't  be  mistaken-yes-poor  fellow, 
Arundel,  who  flung  himself  back  in  his  chair  and  ,  to  think  that  he  should  come  to  this'  vou  haven't 
yawni  d  dolelully  during  the  earlier  part  of  the  '  forgotten  him,  Martin,  surely  ' 
cntertainiiuiit.        ,,.„..,,  \     'Eorgotten    what— forgotten  whom  ?    Mr  dear 

'It  ain  t  particularly  jolly,  is  it,  Martin  V  he  *  Edward,  what  do  vou  mean  -' 
said,  naively.  •  'Lefs  go  out  and  have  some  oy«- ;      •  .lolin  Mar.hmont,  the  poor  fellow  who  used 
ters.  and  come  m  again  just  before  the  pantomime  ;  to  teach  us  mathematics  at  Vernon's;  the  fellow 
•"S'l'*-  ,  .        .  ^'"'  Rovernor  sacked  because—' 

'.Vlamma  made   mn  promrsc  that  wo  wouldn't        'Well,  what  of  him-' 
leave  the  theatre  Ji'l  we  left  for  good,  Ned.'  his  |     'The   poor  chap  with  the  banner,'  exclaimed 
cousin  answered^  'and  then  we're  to  go  straight    the  boy,  in  a  breathless  whisper;  'don't  rou   see 
ho.ncmacab.  ;  Martin  .'  didn't  you  recognize  him  .'    It'sMarch- 

1.1  ward  Arundel  sighed  'I  wish  we  hadn't  ,  mont  poor  old  Marchmont,  that  we  used  to  chaff, 
come  till  hail-pnce,  old  Icllow,'  he  .said,  drear-  and  that  the  governor  sacked  because  he  had  a 
ily.  I  Id  known  it  was  to  be  a  tragedy,  I  ,  constitutional  cough,  and  wasn't  strong  enomch 
wouldn't   have   come  away  from  the  Square  in    for  his  work  '  ""wuj,  .uuujn 

such  a  iuirry.    I  wonder  why  people  wrue  trage- ;      'Oh  yes,  1  remember  him  well  enough.'  Mr 
dies,  when  nobody  likes   hem ."  '  ^  , ,  ^  ^.      Mostyn  answered,  indifferently.      'Nobody  could 

He  turned  his  back  to  he  stage,  and  folded  his  ,  stand  his  cough,  you  know;  and  he  was  a  vS 
arms  upon  the  velvet  cushion  of  the  box  prepara- ;  fellow,  into  the  bargain  '  ^  "«  *  rmgar 

ory  to  indulging  himself  in  a  deliberate  inspec  '     'He  wasn't  a  vulgar  fellow,'  said  Edward    ia       ' 


JOHN    MAUCHMONT'S  LEGACY.' 


•lignantly :  'there^  there's  the  curtain  down  again: )  there's  a  good  fellow.  I  tell  you  he's  a  frieni  of 
he  belonged  lo  a  good  famifj  in  Lincolnshire,  and  j  -nine,  and  quite  a  gentleman  too.  Bless  you,  there 
ira>«  heir-presumptive  to  a  stunning  fortune.  IVfc  'sn't  a  move  in  mathematics  he  isn't  up  to;  and 
hfeard  him  say  so  twenty  times.'  |  :ie'll  come  into  a  fortune  some  of  these  days — ' 

*0h,  I  daresay  you've  heard  him  say  so,   my  >     'Yes,' interrupted  the  door-keeper,  sarcasticalj 
dear  boy,'   he  murnui.''ed,  superciliously.  |  ly,  'I've  heerd  that.     They  chaffs  him  about  that 

isi'Ah,    and  it  was  true,'    cried   Edward;     'he  J  up  stairs.     He's  allers  talking  about  bem'agcn- 


wasrj't  a  fellow  to  tell  iic.^;  perhaps  he'd  hav 
suited  Mr.  Vernon  better  if  he  had  been.  He  had 
bad  health,  and  was  weak,  and  ail  that  sort  ol 
thing;  but  he  wasn't  a  snob.  He  showed  mc  a 
signet-ring  once  that  he  used  to  wear  on  his  watch- 
chain — ' 

•A  silver  watch-chain,'  simpered  Mr.  Mostyn, 
•just  like  a  carpenter's. ' 


lenian  and  belongin'  to  gentlemen,  tnd  alUhat; 
lut  you're  the  first  gentleman  as  have  ever  as't 
ifler  him.' 

'And  can  I  see  him  ?' 

•I'll  do  my  best.  Sir.  Here,  you  Jim,'  said  the 
door-keeper,  addressing  a  dirty  youth,  who  had 
just  nailed  an  official  announcement  of  the  next 
norning's   rehearsal  upon  the  back  of  a  stony- 


'Oon't  be  such  a  supercilious  cad,   Martin.  He  |  learled  swing-door,   which   was  aptto'jam  the 


was  very  kind  to  nift,  poor  Mar^.l^mont,  and  1 
know  I  was  always  a  nuisance  lo  him,  poor  old  fel- 
low; foryouknow  1  never  could  eeton  with  Euclid. 
I'm  sorry  to  see  him  here.  Think,  Martin,  what 
an  occupation  for  him  !  f  don't  suppose  he  gels 
more  than  nine  or  ten  shillings  a  week  for  it.' 

'A  shilling  a  night  is,  t  believe,  the  ordinary  re- 
muneration iV)r  a  stage-soldier.  They  pay  as  nuicl, 
for  the  real  thing  as  for  the  sham,  you  see;  the  dc- 
tenders  of  our  country  risk  their  lives  for  about 
the  same  consideration.  Where  are  you  going, 
Ned.'' 


ingers   of  the  uninitiated,  'what's  the  name  of 

ibat  super  with  the  jolly  bad  cough,  the  one  they 

-all  Rarkmg — ' 
'Oh,  that's  Morti-more.' 
'Oo  you  know  if  he's  on  in  the  first  scene?' 
'  Vfcs.    He's  one  of  tlie  demons;  but  the  scene'* 

just  over.     Do  you  want  him  ?' 
'Voucan  take  up  this  young  gentleman's  card 

*o  him,  and  tell  him  to  slip  down  here  if  he's  got 

a  wail,'  said  the  door-keeper. 
Mr.  Arundel  handed  his  card  to  the  dirty  boy. 
He'll  come  lo  me  fast  enough,  poor  fellow  !'  ho 


Edward  Arunde!  hr,d  left  his  place,  and  was  try-  muttered.  '1  usen't  to  chaff  him  as  the  others  did, 
ing  to  undo  the  door  of  the  box.  .  '      and  I'm  glad  1  didn't  now.' 

'To  see  if  I  can  get  at  this  poor  fellow.'  Edward  Arundel  could  not  ea.sily  forget  that 

•You  persist  in  de«laring,  then,  that  the  "man  ]  one  brief  scrutiny  in  which  he  had  reco.;nTzed  the 
with  the  weak  legs  isourold  mathcmalical  drudge.'  )  wasted  face  of  Ihe  schoolmaster's  hack  who  had 
Well,  I  shouldn't  wonder.  The  fellow  was  cough- 1  taught  him  mathematics  only  two  years  before.— 
ing  all  throug'i  the  five  acts,  and  that's  uncom-  j  Gould  there  be  any  thing  m'>re  piteous  than  that 
inonly  like  Marchmont.  Vou're  surely  not  going  legrading  spectacle.'  The  feeble  frame  scarcely 
to  renew  your  acquaintance  with  him."  j  able  lo  sustain  that  paltry  onc-sided   banner  of 

But  young  Arundel  liad  just  succeeded  ifl  open-  calico  and  tinsel;  the  two  rude  daubs  of  coarse 
ing  the  door,  and  he  left  the  box  without  wailing  I  vermilion  upon  the  hollow  cheeks;  the  black 
to  answer  his  cousin's  question.  He  ma'de  his  way  |  smudges  that  were  meant  for  eyebrows;  th« 
very  rapidly  out  of  the  theatre,  and  fought  man- (  wretched  scrap  of  horse-hair  gluec^  upon  the 
fully  through  the  crowds  who  were  wailing  about  |  pinched  chin  in  dismal  mockery  of  a  beard;  and 
the  pit  and  gallery  doors,  until  he  found  himself  i  through  all  this  the  pathetic  pleadingof  large  ha- 
at  the  stage-entrance.  He  had  of:cn  looked  with  |  zel  eyes,  bright  with  the  unnatural  lustre  of  dis- 
reverenl  wonder  at  the  dark  portal;  but  he  had  ease,  and  saying  perpetually,  more  plainly  than 
never  before  essayed  lo  ct'oss  the  sacred  thresh-  \  words  can  speak,  'Do  not  look  at  me;  do  not  de- 
hold.  But  the  guardian  of  the  gi'e  to  this  Iheatri-  \  spisc  me;  do  not  even  pity  me.  It  won't  last  long.' 
c:il  pai-adise,  inhabited  by  i'airies  at  a  guinea  a  |  The  fresh-hearted  school-boy  was  still  thinking 
week,  and  bironial  retainers  at  a  shilling  a  night,  <  of  thi-,  when  a  wasted  hand  was  laid  lightly  and 
is  ordinarily  a  very  inflexiiile  individuol.  not  to  bi;  j  tremulously  on  his  arm,  and  looking  up  lie  saw  a 
corrupted  by  any  mortal  persuasion,  and  scarcely  '  man  in  a  hideous  mask  and  a  tight-tilling  suit  of 
corruptible  by  the  more  potent  influence  of  gold  i  scarlet  and  gold  standing  by  his  side. 
or  silver.*  Poor  Kdward's  half  a  crown  had  n-i  ef-  ^  'I'll  take  off  my  mask  in  a  minute,  Arundel,' 
feci  whatever  upon  the  stern  door-keeper,  who  ;  said  a  faint  voice,  that  sounded  hollow  and  muf- 
thanked  hjm  for  his  donation,  but  told  him  that  it  ■  tied  within  a  cavern  of  pasteboard  and  wicker- 
was  agen  his  orders  to  let  any  body  go  up  stairs    '  work,     'it  was  very  good  of  you  to  come  round' 

'But  I  want  lo  see  some  one  so  particularly,'  ;  very,  very  good  I' 
the  boy  said,  eagerly.  '  Don 'i  you  think  you  could  ]  '1  was  so  sorry  lo  see  you  here,  Marchmont; 
manage  it  for  me,  you  know.'  He's  an  old  friend  ;  knew  you  in  a  moment,  in  spile  of  the  disguise, 
of  mine — one  of  the  supernu— whal's-its  name^.'' ;  The  supernumerary  had  strugglej  out  of  hit 
added  Edward,  stumbling  over  the  word.  'He  J  huge  head-gear  by  this  time,  and  laid  the  fabric 
carried  a  banner  in  the  tragedy,  you  know;  and  >  of  papier-macfic- and  tinsel  carefully  aside  upon  a 
he's  ?ot  such  an  awful  cough,  poor  chap.'  shelf.     He  had  washed  his  face  before  putting  on 

'The  man  as  cnrried  the  banner  with  a  awful  >  the  mask,  for  he  was  not  caljed  upon  to  appear 
cough,'  said  the  door-keeper,  reflectively;  'why,  j  before  a  British  public  in  martial  semblance  any 
I'm  blest  if  it  ain't  l?arking  Jeremiah.'  <  more  upon  that  evening. '"  The  pale  wasted  faee 

'Barking  Jeremiah  !'  ;  was  interesting  and  genlleBianly,  not  by  any  means 

'Yes,  Sir.    They  calls  him  Barking  because  he's  :  handsome,  but  almost  womanly  in  its  softness  «f 
allers  coughin' h>s  poor  weak  head   off;  and  they  |  expression.  It  was  the  face  of  a  man  who  had  not 
calls  him  Jeremiah  becau.se  he's  alters  doleful. —  ]  yet  seen  his  thirtieth  birth-day;  who  might  nerar 
And  I  never  did  see  such  a  doleful  chap,  cer- i  live  to  see  it,  Edward  thought,  mournfully, 
tainly.'  .     'Why  do  you  do  this,  Marchmont .'' (ha  boy 

'Oh.  do  let  me  sec  him,'  cried  Mr.   Edward  '  asked,  bluntly. 
Arundel.     •]  know  you  can  manage  it;  so  do,^     'Because  there  was  nothing;  die  left  for  mat* 


I  JOHN  MARCH  MONT '3  LEGACY. 

do,'  the  itage-demon  arnwered,  with  a  sad  smile  J  world,  I  shall  nerer  as:ain  boast  of  my  succMses 

•I  can't  pet  a  situation  in  a  school,' for  my  health  )  with  lovely  woman.    What's  the*number,  old  fel- 

won't  suffer  me  to  lake  one;  or  it  won't  suffer  any  }  low  .'' 

employer  to  take  me,  for  fear  of  my  falling  ill',     Mr.  Arundel  had  pulled  out  a  smart  morocco 

upon  his  hands,  which  comes  to  the  same  thing;'  pocket-book  and  a  gold  pencil-case. 

•0  I  do  a  little  copying  for  the  law-slationers,  and  :;      'Twenty-seven  Oakley  Street,  Lambeth.      But 

this  help*  put  that,  and  1  get  on  as  well  as  lean.)  I'd    rather  you   wouldn't   come,   Arundel;  your 

I  wouldn't  so  much  mind  if  it  wasn't  for — '  '  friends  wouldn't  like  it.' 

He  stopped  suddenly,  interrupted  by  aparox-;  'xMy  friends  may  go  hang  themselves.  I  shall 
ysm  of  coughing.  do  as  I  like,  and  I'll  he  with  you    to  breakfast, 

'[[  it  wasn't  for  whom,  old  fellow?'  'sharp  ten.' 

'My  pocr  little  girl;  my  poor  little  motherless  >  The  supernumerary  had  no  time  to  remonstrate. 
Mary.'  (The  progress  of  the  music,  faintly  audible  from 

Fxlward  Arundel  looked  grave,  and  perhaps   a  j  the  lobby  in  which  this   conversation  had  taken 
little  ashamed  of  himself.     He  had  forgotten  un- .  place,  told  him  that  his  scene  wa«  nearly  on. 
til  this  moment  thai  his  old  tutor  had  been  left  a.'     '1  can't  stop  another  moment.  Go  back  to  your 
widower  at  four-and-twenty,  with  a  little  daugh-/ friends,  Arundel.    Good-night.    God  bless  you  !' 
ter  to  support  out  of  his  scanty  stipend.  /     "i^tay;  one  word.  The  Lincolnshire  property — ' 

•Don't  be  down-hearted,  old  fellow,'  the  lad  'Will  never  come  to  me,  my  boy'  the  demon 
vhispered,  tenderly;  'perhaps  I  shall  be  able  to  '  answered  sadly,  through  his  mask;  for  he  had  been 
help  you,  you  know.  And  the  little  girl  can  go  -  busy  reinvesting  himself  in  that  demoniac  guiae. 
down  to  Dangertield;  1  know  my  mother  would  /  '1  tried  to  sell  my  reversion,  but  the  Jews  almost 
take  care  of  her,  and  will  keep  her  there  till  you  /  laughed  in  my  face  when  they  heard  me  cough. — 
ret  strong  and  well.     And  then  you  might  start  a  ;  Cood-night." 

fencing-room,  or  a  shooting-gallery, or  something',;  He  was  gone,  and  the  sw.ing-door  slammed  in 
of  that  tort,  at  the  VVe«t  End;  and  I'd  come  to  >  Edward  Arundel's  face.  The  boy  huiried  back 
you,  and  bring  lots  of  fellows  to  you,  and  you'd  /  to  his  cousin,  who  was  cross  and  dissatisfied  athis 
get  on  capitally ,  you  know. '  <  absence.     Martin  Mostyn  had  discovered  that  the  ' 

Poor  John  Marchmont,  the  asthmatic  supernu-^  ballet-girls  were  all  either  old  or  ugly,  the  music 
merary,  looked  perhaps  the  very  last  person  in  >  badly  cliosen,  the  pantomime  stupid,  the  scenery  a 
the  world  whom  it  could  be  possible  to  associate  .' failure,  ^le  asked  a  few  supercilious  questions 
with  a  pair  of  foils  or  a  pistol  and  a  target;  but  he  ;  about  his  old  tutor,  but  scarcely  listened  to  Ed- 
imiled  faintly  at  his  old  pupil's  enthusiastic  talk.  /  ward's   answers;  and   was   interisely  aggravated 

'  Vou  were  always  a  good  fellow,  Arundel,'  he  ^  with  his  companion's  pertinacity  in  sitting  out  the  ' 
laid,  gravely.  '1  don't  suppose  I  shall  ever  ask .;  comic  business — in  wuich  poor  John  Murchmoni. 
you  to  do  me  a  service;  but  if,  by-and-by,  this  <;  appeared  and  re-appeared;  nov/ as  a  well-dressed 
cough  makes  me  knock  under,  and  my  little  Polly  j  passenger  carrying  a  parcel,  which  he  deliberatelT 
•hould  be  left— I— 1  think  you'd  get  your  mother,  sacrificed  to  the  felonious  propensities  of  the 
to  be  kind  to  her,  wouldn't  you,  Arundel.''  j  clown,  now  as  a  policr?man,  now  as  a  barber,  now 

A  picture  rose  before  the  supernumerary's  wea-.;  as  a  chemist,  now  as  a  ghost;  but  always  buffeted, 
ry  eyes  as  he  said  this;  the  picture  of  a  plea.sant?  or  cajoled,   or  bonneted,   or  imposed  updn;  al- 
lady  whose  description  he  had  often  heard  from  )  ways  piteous,  miserable,  and- long-sufieriug;  with 
the  lips  of  a  loving  son,  a  rambling  old  mansion, ,  arms  that  ached  from  carrying  a  banner  through 
wide-spreading  lawns,  and  long  arcades  of  oak' five  acts  of  blank-verse   weariness,  with   a  head 
and  beeches  leading  away  to  the  blue  distance.  If/  that  had  throbbed  under  the  weight  of  a  ponderous 
this  Mrs.  Arundel,  who  was  so  tender  and  com- /edifice  of  pasteboard  and  wicker,  with   eyes  that 
passionate  and  gentle  to  every  red-cheeked  cot- j  were  sore  with  the  evil  influence  of  blue-fire  and 
tage  girl  who  crossed  her  pathway— Edward  had  /  gunpowder  smoke,  with  a  throat  that  had  been 
told  him  this  very  often— would  lake  compa*ssion  J  poisoned  by  sulphurous  vapors,  with  bones  that 
also  upon  this  little  one!     If  she  would  only  con- ^  were  stiff  with  playful  pommeling  of  clown  and 
descend  to  see  the  ehild,  tii«  poor  pale  neglected  5 pantabon:  and  all  for— a  shilling  a  night! 
flower,  the  iragne  Illy,  the  frail  exotic  blossom,) 
that  was  so  criieliy  out  of  place  upon  the   bleak/ 
pathways  of  life  I  '       i  ■  '  *** 

'If  iliai's  all  tint  troubles  you,' young  Arundel; 
cried,  eagerly, 'you  may  make  your  mind  easy,/  CHAPTER  H. 

and  come  and  have  some  oysters.  We'll  take  care') 

of  the  child.     I'll  adopt  hJr,  and  my  mother  shall  ^  littlbmart. 

educate  her.  and  she  shall  marry  a  duke.  Run  Poor  John  Marehmont  had  given  his  address 
away  now,  old  felloe-,  and  change  your  clothes,  {  unwillingly  enough  to  his  old  pupil.  The  lodcine 
and  come  and  have  oysters,  and  stout  out  of  the  i  in  Oakley  Street  was  a  wretched  back-room  upon 
pewter.  '  ■■  ,    «  .      .  f 

Mr.  Marchmbnt  shook  his  head 
•My  time's  just 
icene 
Arundel,  but  this  isn't  exactly 


the  second  floor  of  a  house  whose  lower  regions 
,.      ,    .     ,        ,,        .,     ,,         .     ,  were  devoted   to  that  species  of  establishment 

timcsjust  up,  hesaid;'!  m  on  m  the  next  commonly  called  a  'ladies' wardrobe.'  The  poor 
II  was  very  kind  of  you  to  come  round,!  gentleman,  the  teacher  of  mathematics,  the  law- 
el,  but  his  isn  t  exactly  the  best  place  for ;  writer,  the  Drury  Lane  supernumerary,  had 
you  Go  back  to  your  fl-iends,  my  dear  boy,  and  !  shrunk  from  any  exposure  of  his  poverty ;  but  his 
don  t  think  any  more  of  me  1  11  write  to  you  pupil's  imperious  good  nature  had  overridden  ey- 
•ome  day  about   .tile  Mary.  ,  .  •  ^  .^    P^^  objection,  and  John  Marehmont  awoke  upon 

« You  II  do  polhing  of  the  kind,,  exclaimed  thchhe  morning  after  the  meeting  at  Drurv  Lane   to 
boy.    'You  II  give  me  y«*ir  address  instanter,  and  >  the  rather  embarrassing  recollection  that  he  waa 
111   come   to  see  you  the  first  thing  to-morrow   to  expect  a  visitor  to  breakfast  with  him 
Morning,  and  you  11  introduce  me  to  little  Mary;       How  was  he  to  entertain  the  dasbine  hieh-SDi- 
and  »f  ihc  and  1  are  not  the  best  friend*  in  the  \  rited  young  school-boy,  whose  lot  was  caat  in  tii» 


JOHN   MARCHMONT'S  LEGACY. 


pleasant  pathways  of  life,  and  who  was  no  doubt)  bate— it  would  have  been  about  as  easr  for  him 
accustomed  to  sec  at  his  matutinal  meal  such  lux-;^  to  become  either  as  to  burst  at  once,  and  without 
uries  as  John  Marchmont  had  only  beheld  in  the/  an  hour's  practice,  into  a  full-blown  L6olard  or 
fairy-like  realms  of  comestible  beauty  exhibited  \  Olmar— his  daughter's  influence  would  hare  held 
to  hungry  foot-passengers  behind  the  plate-glass)  him  back  as  securely  as  if  the  slender  arms  twined' 
windows  of  Italian  warehouses  ?  >  tenderly  about  him  had  been  chains  of  adamant 

'He  has  hams  stewed  in  Madeira,  and  Perigord  •  forged  by  an  enchanter's  power, 
pies,   I   dare  say,  at  his  Aunt  Mostyn's,'  John  J      How  could  he  be  false  to  liis  little  one,  his  help- 
thought,  despairingly.     'What  can  I  gire  him  to;  less  child,  who  had  been  confided  to  him  in  th« 
eat?'  '  ■  darkest  hour  of  his  existence;  the  hour  in  which 

But  John  Marchmont,  after  the  manner  of  the  J  his  consumptive  wife  had  yielded  to  the  many 
poor,  was  apt  to  overestimate  the  extravagance  |  forces  arrayed  against  her  in  life's  battle,  and 
of  the  rich.  If  he  could  have  seen  the  Mostyn  >  had  left  him  alone  in  the  worid  to  fight  for  hit 
breakfast  then  preparing  in  the  lower  regions  of  J  little  girl? 

Montague  Square,  he  might  have  been  considera-S  'If  I  were,  to  die  I  think  Aruiiri el's  mother 
bly  relieved;  for  he  would  only  have  beheld  mild  ';  would  be  kind  to  her,'  John  Marchmont  thought, 
infusion*  of  tea  and  coffee,  in  silver  vessels,  cer-(  as  he  finished  his  careful  toilet.  'Heaven  knowi 
tainly,  four  French  rolls  hidden  under  a  glisten- 1 1  have  no  right  to  ask  or  expect  such  a  thing;  lyit 
ing  damask  napkin,  six  triangular  fragments  of  S  she  will  be  rich  by-aod-by,  perhaps,  and  will  b« 
dry  toast,    cut  from  a  stale  half-quartern,  four  new  ;  able  to  repay  them.' 

laid  eggs,  and  about  half  a  pound  of  bacon   cut;      A  little  hand  knocked  lightly  at  the  doorof  hi» 
into  rasher?  of  trauscendentnl  delicacy.     Widow  \  room  while  he  was  thinking  this,  and  a  childlifc 
ladies  who  have  daughters  to  marry  do  not  plunge  (  voice  said  : 
very  deep  into  the  books  of  Messrs.  Foi-tnum  and.)     'May  I  come  in,  papa?' 
Mason.  '     The  little  girl  slept  with  one  of  the  landlady*! 

'He  used  to  like  hot  rolls  when  I  wa»  at  Ver- !  children  in  a  "room  above  her  father's.  John  open- 
non'«<,' John  thought,  rather  more  hopefully;  '1 J  ed  the  door  and  let  her  in.  The  pale  wintry  sun- 
wonder  whether  he  likes  hot  rolls  still :'         '        !  shine,  creeping  in  at  the  cirtainless  window,  near 

I'ondering  thus,  Mr.  iMarchmonl  dressed  him- J  which  Mr.  Marchmont  sat,  shone  full  upon  the 
self— verv  neatly,  very  carefully;  for  he  was  one  (  child's  face  as  she  came  toward  him.  It  was  a 
of  those  men  whom  even  povefly  cannot  rob  of  ^  small,  pale  face,  with  singularly  delicate  features, 
man's  proudest  attribute,  his  individuality.  He  )  a  tiny  straight  nose,  a  pensive  rnouth,  and  large 
made  no  noisy  protest  against  the  humiliations  to  \  thoughtful  hazel  eyes.  The  child's  hair  fell  loose- 
which  he  was' compelled  to  submit;  he  uttered  no  j  ly  upon  her  shoulders;  not  in  those  corkscrew 
boisterous  assertions  of  his  own  merit:  he  urged  \  curls  so  much  affected  by  mothers  in  the  humbler 
no  clamorous  demand  to  be  treated  as  a  gentle-)  walks  of  life,  nor  yat  in  those  crisp  undulationi 
man  in  his  day  of  misfortune;  but  in  his  own  mild,  ;■  lately  adopted  in  Belgravian  nurseries,  but  in  soft 
undemonstrative  wav  he  did  assert  himself,  quite  \  silken  masses,  only  curling  at  the  cxtreiftc  end  of 
as  elfectu^llv  as  if  he  had  raved  all  day  upon  the) each  tress.  Miss  Marchmont— she  was  alwayi 
hardship  of  his  lot;  and  drunk  himself  mad  and  (called  Miss  Marchmont  in  that  Oakley  street 
blind  under  the  pressure  of  his  calamities.  He  >  household— wore  her  brown  stuff  frock  and  scanty 
never  abandoned  the  habits  which  had  been  pe- 1  diaper  pinafore  as  neatly  as  her  father  wore  bji 
culiar  to  him  from  his  childhood.  H«  was  as  neat  { threadbare  coat  and  darned  linen.  She  was  very 
and  orderly  in  his  second-floor  back  as  he  had  |  pretty,  very  lady-like,  very  interesting;  but  it  was 
been  seven  or  eight  years  before  in  his  simple  ^  impossible  to  look  at  her  without  a  vague  feeling 
apartments  at  Cambridge.  He  did  not  recognize  /  of  pain  that  was  difficult  to  understand.  You 
that  association  which  most  men  perceive  be- (  knew  by-and-by  why  you  were  sorry  for  this  little 
iween  poverty  and  shirt-sleeves,  or  povertv  and  )  girl.  She  had  never  been  a  child.  That  divine 
beer.  He  was  content  to  wear  threadbare  cloth,  I^  period  of  perfect  innocence— innocence  of  all  sor- 
t»iit  adhered  most  obstinately  toa  prejudice  in  favor  'i  row  and  trouble,  falsehood  and  wrong— that  bright 
of  clean  linen.  He  never  acquired  those  lounging  j  holiday-time  of  the  soul  had  never  been  hers.— 
Tagabood  habits  peculiar  to  some  men  in  the  day )  The  ruthless  hand  of  poverty  had  snalobcd  a\my 
of  trouble.  Even  among  the  supernumeraries^  from  her  the  gift  which  God  had  given  her  in  her 
of  Dniry  Lane  he  contrived  to  preserve  his  self-  'i  cradle;  and  at  eight  years  old  she  was  a  woman- 
respect;  if  they  nicknamed  him  Barking  Jeremiah.' a  woman  invested  with  all  that  is  most  benuti- 
they  took  care  only  to  pronounce  that  playful  /  ful  among  womanly  attributes— love,  tendeil^ss, 
tobriquet  when  the  gentleman-super  was  safely  |  compassion,  carefulness  for  others,  unselfish  devo- 
out  of  hearing.  He  was  so  polite  in  the  midst  of  |  tion,  uncomplaining  patience,  heroic  endurance, 
hit  reserve,  that  the  person  who  could  wilfully)  She  was  a  woman  by  reason  of  all  these  virtues; 
have  offended  him  must  have  been  more  unkindly  i  but  she  was  no  longer  a  child.  At  three  years  old 
than  any  of  her  Majesty's  servants.  It  is  true  I  she  had  bidden  fardwcH  forever  to  the  ignorant 
that  the' great  tragedian  on  more  than  one  occa-  selfishnMS,  the  animal  enjoyment  of  childhood, 
tion  apostrophized  the  weak-kneed  banner-holder  and  had  learned  what  it  was  to  be  sorry  for  poor 
as 'BE*iT,' when  the  super 't  cough  had  peculiarly  <  papa  and   nvimina;  and   from    that  first  time  of 


disturbed  his  compoture;  but  the  same  great  man 
gave  poor  John  Marchmont  a  letter  to  a  distin- 
{uithed  physician,  compassionately  desiring  the 
relief  of  the  same  pulmonary  affection.  If  John 
Marchmont  had  not  been  prompted  by  his  own  in- 
ttiDcu  to  struggle  againit  the  evil  influences  of 


awakening  to  the  sense  of  pHy  and  love,  she  had 
never  ceased  to  be  the  comforter  of  the  helplcsi 
young  husband  who  was  so  soon  to  be  left  wife- 

IfSS. 

John  had  been  compelled  to  leave  his  child,  in 
order  to  get  a  living  for  her  and  for  himself  in  tb* 


the  sake  of  ooe  who  was  tea  timet  dearer  to  him 
than  bimself. 
U  Ut  $9tM  k»T«  b«c«B«  ft  iwinller  or  %  rcpro- 


povtrly,  he  would  have  done  battle  sturdily  for   hard  service  of  Mr.  Laurence  Vernon,  the  princh 


pal  of  the  highly  select  and  expensive  academj 
at  which  Edward  Arundel  and  Martin  Moslvn  ha4 
bMa  tdiucaUd.  But  b«  had  left  her  in  (o«d  iiuUtj 


JOHN  MARCHiNlONT'S  LEG  ACT 


and  when  the  bitter  day  of  his  dismissal  came, 
he  was  scarcely  as  sorry  as  he  ought  to  have  been 
for  the  calamity  which   broiicht  him  back  to  his 
little  Mary.      It  is  impossible  for  any  words  of 
mine  tD  tell  how  much   he  loved  the  child;  but 
take  into  consideration  his   hopeless   poverty,  his 
•ensitivo  and  reserved  nature,  his  utter   Joncli- 
nes'',  the  bereavement  that  had  casta  shadow  up- 
on his  youth,  and  you  will  perhaps  understand  an 
afT'iCtion  that  was  almost  morbid  in  its  intensity, 
and  which  was  reciprocated  most  fully  by  its  ob- 
ject.    The  little  cirl  loved  her  father  too  imieli.— 
When  he  was  with  her,  she  w  as  content  to  sit  by 
his  <=ide,  watching  him  as  he  wrote:  proud  to  help 
him,  if  even  by  so  much  as  wiping;  his  pens,  or 
handin;;  him  his   blotting-paper;  happy  to  wait 
upon  him,  to  CO  ou',  marketing  for  him,  to  prepare 
his  scanty  meals,  to  make  his    tea,  and  arrange 
and  re-arrans;e  every  object  in  the  slenderly  fur- 
nished   second-floor    baVk-ro'om.      They    talked 
sometimes  of  the  Lincolnshire  fortune— the  for- 
tune which  mipht  come  to  Mr.  Marchmont,   if 
three  people,  whose  lives  were  each  worth  three 
times  John's  feeble  existence,  would  be  so  obi i- 
fine;  as  to  clear  the  way  for  the  heir-at-law,. by 
taking:  an  early  departure  to  the  church-yard.    A 
more  practical  man  than  John  Marchmont  would 
have  kept  a  sharp  eye  upon  these  three  lives,  and 
by  some  means  or  other  contrived  to  find  out  whe- 
ther number  one  was   consumptive,  or  number 
two  dropsical,  or  number  three  apoplectic;  but 
John  was  utterly  incapable  of  any  such  IVachia- 
vellian  proceeding.  I  think  he  sometimes  beg;uiled 
bis  weary  walks  between  Oakley  Street  and  Dru- 
ry  Lane  "by  the   dreamine  of  such  childish  day- 
dreams as   I  should  be  almost  ashamed  to  set 
down  upon  this  sober  page.  The  three  lives  miglil 
all  happen  to  be  riding  in  the  same  express  upon. 
the  occasion  of  a  terrible  collision;  but  the  poor 
fellow's  gentle  nature  shrank  appalled  before  the 
vision  he  had  invoked.     He  could  not  sacrifice  a 
whole  trainful  of  victims  even  for  little  Mary. — 
He   contented   himself  with  borrowing  a   Times 
newspaper  now  and  then,  and  looking  at  the  lop 
of  the  second  column,  with  the  faint  hope  that  he 
ihould  see  his  own  name  in  large  capitals,  couplet! 
with  the  announcement  that  by  applying  some- 
where he  might  hear  of  something  to  his  advan- 
tare.     He  contented  himself  with  this,  and  with 
talking  about  the  future  to  little  Mary  in  the  dim 
Srelight.     They  spent  long  hours  in  the  shadovify 
room,  only  lighted  by  the  faint  flicker  of  a  pitiful 
hanilful  of. coals;  for  the  commonest  dip-candles 
are  sevenp«nce  half-penny  a  pound,   and  were 
dearer,  I  dare  say,  in  the  year  '38.  Heaven  knows 
what  splendid  castles  in  the  air  these  two  simple- 
hearted  creatures  built  for  each  other's  pleasure 
by  that  comfortless  hearth.  I  believe  that,  though 
the.  father  made  a  pretense  of  talking  of  these 
things  only  for  the  amusement  of  his  child,  he  was 
actually  the  more  childish  o*f  the  two.      It  was 
only  when  heleft  that  fire  lit  room,  and  went  back 
into  the  hard,  reasonable,  commonplace  world. 
that  he  remembered  how  foolish  the  talk  was, 
and  how  it  was  impossible— yes,  impossible — that 
he,  the  law-wrilerand  supernumerary,  could  over 
come  lo  be  master  of  Marchmont  Towers. 

Poor  little  Mary  was  in  this  less  practical  than 
her  father.  She  carried  her  day -dreams  into  the 
•treet,  until  all  Lnmbcth  was  made  glorious  bj 
their  supernal  radiance.  Her  imagination  ran 
riot  in  a  vision  of  a  happy  future,  in  which  her 
father  would  be  rich  ana  powerfuL  I  am  sorry 
to  Mj  tbftt  Bh*  d«med  saostof  bar  ideas  of  gran- 


>  dcdr  from  the  New  Cut.  She  furnished  the  draw- 
;  ing-room  at  Marchmont  Towers  from  the  splen- 
Mlid  stores  of  an  upholsterer  in  that  thoroughfare. 
'  She  1-aid  flaming  Brussels  carpels  upon  the  pol- 
.  ished  oaken  floors  wt^ich  her  father  had  described 
•  to  her,  and  hung  cheap  satin  damask  of  gorgeous 
'.colors  before  the  great  oriel  windows.  She  put 
'gilded  vases  of  gaudy  artificial  flowers  on  the  high 

carved  mantle-pieces  in  the  old  rooms,  and  hung 
'a  disreputable  gray  parrot— for  sale  at  a  green 
'grocer's,  and  given  to  the  use  of  bad  language— 
''  under  the  stone  colonnade  at  the  end  of  the  west- 
•■ernwing.  She  appointed  the  tradespeople  who 
<  should  serve  the  far-away  Lincolnshire  household; 
abe  small  matter  of  distance  would,  of  course, 
J  never  stand  in  the  way  of  her  gratitude  and  _be- 
',  nevolence.  Her  papa  would  employ  the  civil 
.'green-grocer  who  gave  such  excellent  half-pen- 
;ny-worths  of  water-cresses;  the  kind  butter-man 
:'  who  took  such  pains  to  wrap  up  a  quarter  of  a 
$  pound  of  the  best  eighteen-penny  fresh  butter  for 
>the  customer  whom  he  alw:>ys  called 'little  lady.' 
■I  the  considerate  butcher  who  never  cut  more  than 
ahe  three-quarters  of  a  pound  of  rump-steak, 
.'which  made  an  excellent  dinner  for  Mr.  March- 
(moirtandhis  little  girl.      Yes.  all  these  people 

>  should  be  ne:\varded  when  the  Lincolnshire  pro- 
(  perty  came  to  Mary's  papa.  Miss  Marchmont  had 
/some  thoughts  of  building  a  shop  close  to  March- 
i  mont  Towe/8  for  the  accommodating  butcher,  and 
J  of  adopting  the  green-grocer's  eldest  daughter  for 
^  her  confidante  and  companion.  Heaven  knows 
;how  many  times  the  little  girl  narrowly-  escaped 
{  being  run  over  while  walking  tlie  material  streets 
j  in  some  ecstatic  reverie  such  as  this!  but  Provi- 
^d^'uce  was  very  careful  of  the  motherless  girl; 
',  and  she  always  returned  to  Oakley  street  with  her 
'pitiful   little  purchases   of  tea  and*ugar,  butter 

and  meat.      You  will'say,  perhaps,  that  at  Jeolst 

these   foolish  day-dreams   ■vv:ere   childish;    but  I 

maintain  still  that  Mary's  soul  had  longagobade 

,  adieu  to  infancy,  and  that  even   in   these  visions 

>  she  was  womanly;  for  she  was  always  thoughtful 
,  of.  others  rather  than  of  herself,  and  there  was  a 
/  2;reat  deal  more  of  the  practical  business  of  life 
'/  minaled  with  the  silver  web  of  fancies  than  there 
r.hould  have  been  so  soon  after  her  eighth  birth- 
i  lay.    At  times,  too,  an  awful  horror  would  quick 

/  ".n  the  pulses  of  her  loving  heart  as  she  heard  the 
'/  hacking  sound  of  her  father's  cough;  and  a  terri- 
^  hie  dread  would  seize  her — the  fear  that  John 
(  Marchmont  might  never  live  to  inherit  the  Lin- 
'/  colnshire  fortune.  The  child  never  said  her  pray- 
/  ers  without  adding  a  little  extempore  supplication, 
I  that  she  might  die  when  her  father  died.  It  was 
/  a  wicked  prayer,  perhaps:  ajid  a  clergyman  might 
/  have  taught  her  that  her  life  was  in  the  hands  of 
^Providence;  and  that  it  might  please  Him  who 
i  had  created  her  to  doom  her  to  many  desolate 
i  years  of  loneliness;  and  that  it  was  not  for  her, 
^  in  her  wretched  and  helpless  ignorance,  to  rebel 
;'  against  His  divine  will.  I  think  if  the  Archbishop 
/of  Canterbury  had  driven  from  Lambeth  Palace 
/  to  Oakley  Street  to  tell  little  Mary  this,  he  would 
'  have  taught  hei-  in  vain;  and  that  she  would  have 
'  fallen  asleep  that  night  with  the  old  prayer  upon, 
?  her  lips,  the  fond  foolish  prayer  that  the  bonda^ 
'  which  love  had  woven  so  firmly  might  never  b»  I 
,  roughly  broken  by  death. 

Miss  Marchmont  heard  the  story  of  last  night'i 
'.  meeting  with  great  pleasure,  though  it  must  be 
5  owned  she  looked  a  little  grave  when  she  was  told 

>  that  the  generous-hearted  school-boy  was  coming 
f  to  breakfast;  but  bar  gravity  was  only  tbat  of  • 


JOHN  MARCHMOXT'S  LEG  AC  V, 


9 


Ihoughtfiil  housekeeper,  who  ponders  waj's  and  '  'We  could  have  haddocks  every  day  at  March- 
means,  and,  even  while  you  are  telling  herthejmont  Towers,  couldn't  we,  papa?'  she  said, 
number  and  quality  of  your  guests,  sketches  out .  naively. 

a  rough  ground-plan  of  her  dishes,  ponders  the  fish  ,'  But  the  little  girl  was  more  than  delighted  when 
in  season,  and  the  soups  most  fitting  to  precede  '  Edward  Arundel  da>lied  up  the  narrow  staircase 
them,<ind  balances  the  contending  advantages  i  and  burst  into  the  room,  fresh,  radiant,  noisy, 
of   Palestine  and  Julienne,  of  Hare  and  Italian,     j  splendid,   better  dressed  even   than   the  waxen 

•A  "nice"  breakfast,  you  say,  papa,'  she  said,  j  preparations  of  elegant  young  geatlemen  exhibi- 
when  her  father  had  finished  speaking,  'then  we  { led  at  the  portal  of  a  great  outfitter  in  the  Kew 
must  have  wnter-cresscs,  0/ co«"yf.'  i  Cut,  and  jct  not  at  all  !i!<e  either  of  those  red- 

'And  hot  rolls,  Polly  dear.  Arundel  was  always  ;  I'PF^d  'types  of  fashion.  How  delighted  the  boy 
fond  of  hot  rolls.'  i  declared  himself  with  every  thing!  He  had  driven 

'And  hot  rolls,  four  for  threepence  half-penny  '  over  in  a  cabriolet,  and  he  was  awfully  hungry, 
in  the  Cut  ' — (I  am  asHamed  to  say  that  this  be- ,  he  informed  his  host.  The  rolls  and  water-cresses 
nighled  child  talked  as  delibernlely  of  the  'Cut'  disappeared  before  him  as  if  by  magic;  little  Mary 
as  she  might  have  done  of  the  'Row. ') — 'There'll  siiivered  at  the  slashing  cuts  he  made  at  the  but- 
be  one  left  for  tea,  papa;  for  we  co^id  never  eat  |  tcr;  the  haddock  had  scarcely  left  the  gridiron 
foyr  rolls.  They'll  take  sucli  a  lot  of  butter.,  i  before  it  v,as  no  more, 
though.  I      'This  i.s  ten'times  betl'cr  than  Aunt  Mostyn'a 

The  little  housekeeper  toolcout  an  antediluvian]  skinny  breakfasts, 'the  young  gentleman  observed 
bead  pi«se,  and  began  to  examine  her  treasury.}  candidly.  'You  never  get  enoi/gh  wiili  her.  Why 
Her  fatner  handed  all  his  money  to  her,  as  lie  ^doesshe  say,  "You  wor>'t  take  another  egg,  will 
would  have  done  to  his  Wife;  and  iMary  doled  him  ;;  you,  Edward  ?"  if  she  wants  mc  to  have  one .' — 
out  the  little  sums  he  wanted— money  for  half  au  ;;  You  should  see  our  hunling  breakfasts  at  Danger- 
ounce  of  tobacco,  money  for  a  pint  of  beer. —  ^  held,  Marchmoiit.  Four  sorts  of  ciarel,  and  no 
There  v.'ere  no  penny  papers  in  those  days,  or  <  end  of  McseHe  and  Champagne.  You  shall  go 
what  a  treat  an  occasiou'jl  Telegraph  would  have  I  to  Dangerfield  some  day  to  see  my  mother,  Miss 
been  to  poor  John  March mont!  <  Mary.' 

Mary  had  only  one  personal  extravagance. — ;;  He  called  her 'Miss  Marj',' and  seemed  rather 
She  read  novels — dirty,  bloated,  ungainly  volumes  J^hy  of  speaking  to  her.  Her  womanliness  im- 
— which  she  borrowed  froni  a  snuffy  old  woman  <  pressed  liini  in  spite  of  himself.  He  had  a  fancy 
in  a  little  bick  street,  whd  charged  her  the  small- 1  that  she  was  old  enough  to  feel  the  humiliation 
est  hire  ever  knovvn  in  the  circulating-library  ^  of  her  father's  position,  and  to  be  sensitive  upon 
business,  and  who  admired  her  as  a  wonder  ol  ^  the  matter  of  the  two-pair  back;  and  he  was 
precocious  erudition.  The  only  pleasure  the  ;!  sorry  the  moment  after  he  had  spoken  of  Danger- 
child  knew  in  her  father's  absence  was  the  pcru- <  field. 

sal  of  these  dingy  pages;  she  neglected  no  duty,  j  'What  a  snob  I  am  I'  he  thought;  'always brag- 
she  forgot  no  tender  oflice  of  ministering  care  for  <  ging  of  home. ' 

the  loved  one  v.'ho  was  absent;  but  when  all  the  ■,  But  ,Mr.  Arundel  was  not  able  to  stop  very  long 
liitlc  duties  had  been  finished,  how  delicious  it  ■;  in  Oakley  street,  for  the  supernumerary  had  to, 
was  to  sit  down  to  '.Madeleine  the  Deserted,'  and  I  attend  a  rehearsal  at  tv.elve  o'clock;  so  at  half 
'Cosmos  the  Pirate,*  aud  lo  lose  herself  far  away  >  past  eleven  .lohn  Marchmont  and  his  pupil  went 
in  illimitable  regions,  peopled  by  wandering  prjn- ;l^out  together,  and  liltU^  Mary  was  left  alone  to 
cesses  in  white  satin,  and  gentlemanly  bandits,^  clear  away  the  breakfast,  and  perform  the  rest  of 
who  had  been  stolen  from  their  royal  fathers' halls  /  her  household  duties. 

by  venfteful  hordes  of  gipsies.  In  these  early  '/^  She  had  plenty  of  time  before  her,  so  she  did 
years  of  poverty  and  lonelhiess  John  Marchmont's  fnot  begin  at  once,  but  sal  upon  a  stool  near  the 
daughter  stored  up,  in  a  mind  that  was  morbidly  ,'  fender,  gazing  dreamily  at  the  low  fire, 
sensitive  rather  than  strong,  a  terrible  amount  of  ^'  'How  good  and  kir.d  he  is!'  she  Iho.ight;  'just 
dim  poetic  sentiment;  the  possession  of  which  is  :'■  like  Cosmos^ — only  Cosmos  was  dark;  or  .like 
scarcely,  perhaps,  the  best  or  safest  dower  for  a  ''/  Reginald  Havenseroft — hut  then  he  was  dark  toe*, 
young  lady  who  has  life'sjourney  all  before  her.  f  1  wonder  w!iy  the  people,  in  novels  are  always 

At  half  past  nine  o'clock  all  the  simple  prepa- /dark .'     How  kind  he  is  to  papa!      Shall  we  ever 
rations  necessary   for  the  reception  of  a  visitor  :•  go  to  Dangerfield,  I  wonder,  papa  and  me?     Of 
had  been  completed  by  Mr.   Marchmont  .aini  his  !  course  I  woul/ln't  go  wiliiout  papa.* 
(laughter.     All  vestiges  of  John's  bed  had  disap- ' 

peared;  leaving,  it  is  true,   rather  a  suspicious  /  ^,^ 

looking  mahogany  chest  of  drawers  to  mark  the  ' 

spot  where  once  a  bed  had  been.      The  window 

had  been  opened,  the  room  aired  and  dusted,  a • 

bright  little  fire  burned  in  the  shining  grate,  and 

the  most  brilliant   uf  tin   tea-kettles  hissed  upon  ; 

the  hob.      The  white  tabl"-cloth  was  darned  in  '     While  Mary  sat  absorbed  in  such  idle  visions 

several  places;  but  it  was  a  remnant  of  the  smalK  as  these,  Mr.  Marchmontand  his  old  pupil  walked 

stock  of  linen  with  which  John  had  begun  mar- ;■  toward  Waterloo  Bridge  logt;ther. 

ried  life;  and  the  Irish  damask  asserted  its  supe- 1     'I'll  go  as  far  as  the  theatre  with  you,  March- 

fioT  (piality,  in  spite  of  many  darns,  as  positively ,  mont,'  the-boy  said;  'it's  my'hoiidays  now,  you 

as  Mr.  Marchm-int's  good  blood  asserted  itself  in  ■  know,  and  I  can  do  as  [like.     I'm  going  to  a  pri- 

spite  of  his  shabby  coat.      A  brown  tea-pot  full    vate  tutor  in  another  month,  and  he's  to  prepare 

of  strong  tea,  a  plate  of  French  rolls,  a  p^t  of;  me  for  the  army.    1  want  you  lo  tell  me  all  about 

fresh   butter,  and  a  broiled  haddock,  do  not  com- ;  ibat  Lincolnshire  propt^rlv,  old  boy.      Is  it  any 

pose  a  very  epicurean  repast;  but  Slary  March-'  where  near  Swampineton?* 

mont  looked  at  the  humble  breakfast  asapro-^,     'Yes;  within  nine  miies.' 

■pectiTosucosM,  'Goodues*  gracious  mel  Lord  bI«M  nytoul! 


CHAPTER  HI. 


ABOUT   THE    LINCOLNSHIRE    PROPEftTT. 


Iw  JOHN  MARCHMONT'S  LEGACY 

what  an/  extraerdinary  coincidence !    My  uncle  <  or,  haying  issue,  failing  to  cut  off  the  entail,  I  be- 

Hubert's  Rector  of  Swampington — such  a  hole  !  1  ]  lieve  they  call  it.' 

go  there  sometimes  to  see  him  and  my  cousin'     'Arthur!  that's  the   son  of  the  present  pos- 

Olivia.  Isn't  she  a  stunner,  though  !  Knows  more  lessor?' 

Greek  and  Latin  than  me,  and  more  mathematics  \     'Yes.     If  I  and  my  poor  little  girl,  wko  is  del- 

than  you.     Could  eat  our  heads  off  at  any  thing. '  j  icate  like  her  mother,  should  die  before  pither  of 

John  Marchmont  did  not  sCem  very  much  im-^  these  three  men,  there  is  another  who  will  stand 
pressed  by  the  coincidence  that  appeared  so  extra-  ( in  my  shoes,  and  who  will  look  out  perhaps  more 
ordinary  to  Edward  Arundel;  but,  in  order  to  eagerly  than  I  have  done  for  his  chances  of  getting 
oblige  his  friend,  he  explained  very  patiently  and  J  the  property.' 

lucidly  how  it  was  that  only  three  lives  stood  be- ^  'Another!'  exclaimed- Mr.  Arundel.  'By  Jove, 
tween  him  and  the  possession  of  Marchmont  ;*  Marchmont,  it's  the  most  complicated  affair  I 
Towers,  and  all  lands  and  tenements  appertaining  j ever  heard  of !  It's  worse  than  those  sums  yoa 
thereto.  ;!used  to  set  me  in  barter>"If  A  sells  B  999  Stilton 

•The  estate's  a  very  large  one,' he  said,  finally;  J  cheeses  at  9irf.  a -pound,"  knd  all  that  sort  of 
•but  the  idea  of  my  ever  getting-  it  is,  of  course,  <  thing,  you  know.  Do  make  me  understand  it,  old 
too  preposterous. '  ) fellow,  if  )*u  can.' 

'Good  gracious  me  !  I  don't  see  that  at  all,' ex- ^  John  Marchmont  sighed, 
claimed  Edward,  with  extraordii^iry  vivacity. —  f,  'It's  a  wearisome  story,  Arundel,'  he  said.  •! 
•Let  me  see,  old  fellow;  if  I  understand  your  story  ;;  don't  know  why  1  sjiould  bore  you  with-it.' 
right,  this  is  how  the  case  stands:  your  first  cousin  ^  'But  you  don't  bore  me  with  it,'  cried  the  boy, 
is  the  present  possessor  of  Marchmont  Towers;  j  energetically.  'I'm  awfully  interested Tn  it,  you 
he  has  a  son,  fifteen  years  of  age,  who  may  or  ;;  know;  and  1  could  walk  up  and  down  here  all  day 
may  not  marry;  ouiy  one  son,  remember.    But  he  ;;  talking  about  it.' 

has  also  aa  uncle— a  bachelor  uncle — who,  by  the  ;'  The  two  gentlemen  had  passed  the  Surrey  toll- 
terms  of  your  grandfather's  will,  must  get  the ',  gate  of  Waterloo  Bridge  by  this  time.  The  South- 
property  before  you  can  succeed  to  it.  Now,  this  I  western  Terminus  had  not  been  built  in  the  year 
uncle  of  tha  present  possessor  is  an  old  man;  of;;  '38,  and  the  bridge  was  about  the  (juielest  thor- 
course /je'n  di«  soon.  The  present  possessor  him- ^' oughfare  any  two  companions  confidentially,  in- 
ielf  ii  a  middle-a^ed  man;  so  I  shouldn't  think  ;;c]ined  could  have  chosen.  The  share-holder* 
he  can  bfl  likely  to  last  long.    I  dare  say  he  drinks  ^  knew  this,  to  their  cost. 

too  much  port,  or  hunts,  or  something  of  that  ^  Perhaps  Mr.  Marchmont  might  have  been  b»- 
sort;  goes  to  «leep  after  dinner,  and  does  all  man-;;  guiled  into  repeating  the  old  story,  which  he  had 
ner  of  apoplectic  things,  I'll  be  bound.  Then  ^told  so  often  in  the  dim  fire-light  to  his  little  girl, 
there's  the  son,  only  fifteen,  and  not  yet  mar- ;;  but  the  great  clock  of  St.  Paul's  boomed  fgrth  the 
riagoable;  consumptive,  I^dare  say.  Now,  will  ^twelve  ponderous  strokes  that  told  the  hour  of 
you  tell  me  the  chances  are  not  six  to  six  he  dies;;  noon;  and  a  hundred  other  steeples,  upon  either 
unmarried?  So, you  see,  my  dear  old  boy,  you're;;  side  of  the  water,  made  themselves  clamorous 
•uro  to  get  the  fortune;  for  there's  nothing  to  keep;;  with  the  same  announcement. 
you  out  of  it,  except — '  _  ;;      'I  must  leave  you,  Arundel,'  the  supernumerary 

'Exc»j»t  t,hre«  lives,  the  worst  of  whieh  is  bet-;;  said,  hurriedly:  he  had  just  remembered  that  it 
ter  than  mint.  It't  kind  of  you  to  look  at  it  in  this ;;  -was  time  for  him  to  go  and  be  brow-beaten  by  a 
ianguine  way,  Arundel;  but  I  wasn't  born  to  be  a  ^truculent  stage-manager.  'God  bless  you,  my 
rich  mvt.  Perhaps,  after  all.  Providence  has  ^,  dear  boy  !  It  was  very  good  of  you  to  want  to  see 
used  me  betttr  than  I  think.  I  mightn't  have  been '^  me;  and  the  sight  of  your  fresh  face  has  made  me 
hapny  at  Marchmont  Towers.  I'm  a  shy,  awk-^  very  happy.  I  s/iouW  like  you  to  underttand  all 
ward,  humdrum  fellow.  If  it  wasn't  for  Mary '€■;  about  the  Lincolnshire  property.  God  knows 
take — '  ;;  there's  small  chance  of  its  ever  coming  to  me  or 

'Ah,  to  b»  sure!' cried  Edward  Arundel.  'You're;;  to  my  child;  but  when  I  am  dead  and  gone  Mary 
not  gsJhg  to  forget  afl  about — Miss  Marchmont !'  /  will  be  left  alone  in  the  world,  and  it  would  be 
he  was  goin;  to  say 'little  Mary,' but  had  checked  ;;  some  comfort  to  me  to  know  that  she  was  not 
.himaalf  abruptly  at  the  sudden  recollection  of  the  ;;  without  one  friend — generous  and  disinterested 
earnest  haiel  eyes  that  had  kept  wondering  watch  /  like  you,  Arundel — who,  if  the  chance  did  come, 
upon  his  rava^;es  at  the  breakfast-table.  'I'm  sure  ^  would  see  her  righted.' 
Mills  Marchmont's  born  to  be  an  heiress;  I  never  ^  'And  so  I  would,'  cried  the  boy,  eagerly, 
iftw  such  a  little  princess.'  /     His  face  flushed,  and  his  eyes  fired.     He  was  a 

•What!'  demanded  John  Marchmont,  sadly, 'in  jpreux  chevalier  already,  in  thought,  going  forth 
a  darn»d  pinafore  and  a  threadbare  frock  ?'  j  to  do  battle  for  a  hazel-eyed  mistress. 

The  boy's  face  flushed,  almost  indignantly,  as  ^  'I'll  write  the  story,  Arundel,'  John-Marchmont 
his  old  master  taid  this.  *         «>  said;  'I've  no  time  to  tell  it,  and   you   mightn't 

■*You  don't  think  me  such  a  snob  as  to  think  I'd  |  remember  it  either.  Once  more,  good-bye  !  once 
admire   a   Lidy' — be  spoke  thus   of  Miss   Mary  |  more,  God  bless  you!' 

Marchmont,  y«t  midway  between  her  eighth  and  'Stop  !'  exclaimed  Edward  Arundel,  flushing  a 
ninth  birthday — 'the  less  because  she  wasn't  rich  .')  deeper  red  than  before — he  had  a  very  boyish 
But  of  course  your  daughter  will  have  the  for- 1  habit  of  blushing — 'stop,  dear  old  boy.  You  must 
tune  by-and-by,  even  if— '  J  borrow  this  of  me,  please.      I've  lots  of  .them. 

He  stopped,  ashamed  of  his  want  of  tact;  for  I  should  only  spend  it  on  all  sorts  of  bilious 
be  knew  John  would  divine  the  meaning  of  that  things;  or  stop  out  late  and  get  tipsy.  You  shall 
iudden  pause.  pay  me  with  interest  when  you  get  Marchmont 

•Even  if  I  should  die  before  Philip  Marchmont,'  j  Towers.  I  shall  come  and  see  you  again  soon, 
the  teacher  of  mathematics.answfcred,  quietly. —    Good-bye.' 

•As  far  as  that  goes  Mary's  chance  is  as  remote  |  The  lad  forced  some  crumpled  scrap  of  paper 
as  my  own.  The  fortune  can  only  come  to  her  |  into  his  old  tutor's  hand,  bolted  through  the  toll- 
npo»  the  •Tt»t  of  Arthur'!  dyiig  without  issue,  |  bar,  and  jumped  into  a  cabriolet,  wuose  high- 


JOHN  MARCHMONT'S  LEGACY. 


«1 


stepping  charger  was  dawdling  along  Lancaster  |  frank  arid  careless  boj,  to  realiz*  the  ftelingt  of 
Place,  «  -  (a  man  who  looks  at  his  only  child,  and  remem- 

The  •upernuraerary  hurried  on  to  Drury  Lane  '  bers  that  she  may  soon  be  left  helpless  and  da-' 
as  fast  as  his  weak  legs  could  carry  him.  He  was  ;  fenceless  to  fight  the  battle  of  life  with  a  bad  man. 
obliged  to  wait  for  a. pause  in  the  rehearsal  before  !  Sometimes  I  pray  to  God  that  the  Marchmont 
he  could  find  an  opportunity  of  looking  at  the  ,' property  may  never  come  to  my  child  after  my 
parting  gift  which  his  old  pupil  had  forced  upon  }  dealh;  fori  can  not  rid  myself  of  the  thought — 
him.  It  was  a  crumpled  and  rather  dirty  fire- J  may  Heaven  forgive  me  for  its  unworthiness  ! — 
pound  note,  wrapped  round  two  half  crowns,  a  |  that  Paul  Marchmont  would  leave  no  meanj  un- 
shilling,  and  half  a  sovereign.  j  tried,  however  foul,  to  wrest  the  fortune  from  hor. 

The  boy  had  given  his  friend  the  last  i^mnant )  I  dare  say  worldly  people  would  laugh  at  mo  for 
of  his  slender  stock  of  pocket-money.  JohnMarch-J  writing  this  letter  to  you, my  dear  Arundel;  but  I 
mont  turned  his  face  to  the  dark  wing  that  she!-  address  myself  to  the  best  friend  I  have— tho  only 
tered  him  and  wept  silently.  He  was  of  a  gentle  '  creature  1  know  whom  the  influence  of  a  bad  man 
and  rather  womanly  disposition,  be  it  remera-!  is  never  likely  to  corrupt.  JVb6Z«sje  oblige!  lam 
bered;  and  he  was  in  that  weak  state  of  health  in  >  not' afraid  th^at  Ed^-ard  Dangcrfield  Arundel  will 
which  a  man's  eyes  are  apt  to  moisten,  in  spite  of  '■  betray  any  trust,  however  foolish',  that  may  hava 
himself,   under   the    influence   of  any   unwonted  ■  been  confided  to  him. 

emotion.  'Perhaps*  in  writing  to  you  thus,  I  may  feel 

He  employed  a  part  of  that   afternoon  in  wri- >  something  of  that  blind  hopefulness — amidst  tho 
ting  the  letter  which  he  had  promised  to  send  to  l^hipwreck   of  all   that  commonly  gives  birth  to ' 
his  boy i»h  friend.  i  hope — which  the  mariner,  cast  away  upon  soma 

'  desert  island,  feels  when  he  seals  his  simple  story 
*Mt  Dear  Arundki., — My  purpose  in  writing  5  in  a  bottle,  and  launches  it  upon  the  waste  of 
to  you  to-day  is  so  entirely  connected  with  the  !  waters  that  close  him  in  on  every  side.  Befor* 
future  welfare  of  my  beloved  and  only  child,  that ;  tny  little  girl  is  four  years  older  you  will  be  a  man, 
I  shall  carefully  abstain  from  any  subject  not  con-!  Afundel;  with  a  man's  intellect,  a  man's  courage, 
nectcd  with  her  interests.  I  say  nothing,  there- 1  and,  above  all,  a  man's  keen  sense  of  honor.  So 
fore,  respecting  your  conduct  of  this  morning, !  long  as  my  darling  remains  poor,  her  humble 
which,  together  with  my  previous  knowledge  of  |  friends  will  be  strong  enough  to  protect  her;  but 
your  character,  has  decided  me  upon  confiding  to  ;  if  ever  Providence  should  think  fit  to  place  her  ia 
you  the  doubts  and'  fears  which  have  long  tor- J  a  position  of  antagonism  to  Paul  Marchmont — 
mented  m«  upon  the  subject  of  my  darling's  fu- 1  for  he  would  look  upon  any  one  as  an  enemy  who 
ture.  (stood  between  him  and  fortune — she  would  need 

'I  am  a  doomed  man,  Arundel.  The  doctors  s  a  far  more  powerful  protector  than  any  she  could 
have  told  me  this;  but  they  have  told  me  also  that,  \  find  among  her  poor  mother's  relatives.  Will  yea 
though  I  can  never  escape  the  sentence  of  death  !  be  that  protector,  Edward  Arundel.'  I  ara  a 
which  was  passed  upon  me  long  ago,  I  may  live  I  drowning  man,  you  sec,  and  catch  at  the  frailr  t 
for  some  years  if  I  live  the  careful  life  which  only  ^  straw  that  floats  past  me.  I  believe  in  you,  Ed- 
a  rich  man  can  lead.  If  I  go  on  carrying  ban-j  ward,  as  much  as  1  distrust  Paul  Marchmont.  If 
ners  and  breathing  sulphur,  1  cannot  last  long. —  the  day  ever  comes  in  which  my  little  girl  should 
My  little  girl  will  be  left  penniless,  but  not  quite  I  have  to  struggle  with  this  man,  will  you  help  kCf 
friendless;  for  there  are  humble  people,  relatives  >  to  fight  the  battle .''  It  will  not  be  an  easy  ono. 
of  her  poor  mother,  who  would  help  her,  kindly  I  j  'Subjoined  to  this  letter  1  send  you  an  extract 
am  sure,  in  their  own  humble  way.  The  trials  j  from  the  copy  of  my  grandfather's  will,  which 
which  I  fear  for  my  orphan  girl  are  not  so  much  {  will  explain  to  you  how  he  left  his  property-.  Do 
the  trials  of  poverty  as  the  dangers  of  wealth. —  /  not  lose  either  the  letter  or  the  extract.  If  you 
If  the  three  men  who,  on  rny  death,  would  alone  /  are  willing  to  undertake  the  trust  which  I  conlfdo 
stand  between  Mary  and  the  Lincolnshire  proper- ;  to  you  to-day,  you  may  hare  need  to  refer  to  them 
ty,  die  childless,  my  poor  darling  will  become  the  |  after  ray  death.  The  legacy  of  a  child's  help- 
only  obstacle  in  the  pathway  of  a  man  whom,  I ,  lessjiess  is  the  only  bequest  which  I  can  leave  to  the 
will  freely  own  to  you,  I  distrust.  J  only  friend  I  have.  John  Marchmont. 


'27  Oaklet  St.,  Lambeth,  Dec.  3U,  JS38. 


'My  father,  John  Marchmont,  was  the  third  of> 
four  brothers.  The  eldest,  Philip,  died,  leaving) 
one  ion,  also  called  Philip,  and  the  present  pos- i 
sessor  of  Marchmont  Towars.    The  second.  Mar-!     ,,  ,  ... 

maduke,  is  still  alive,  a  bachelor.      Th(i  i^^'^rdJ  JZJ'll^\''Lf^^,^rf}^^^^^^^  ^K"'J" 

,    ,        ,    k  J.  L-.i  /■      I  T    1  •(  mont  lowers  and  .ippurtenanrcs  tiicreto  belonpne  to  tbc 

John;  left  four  children,  of  whom  I  alone  survive.  ,  use  of  my  eldest  son  Philip  Marchmont  during  his  nCur' 

I'^Ka     Tz-vtiffli         Paul  lAff       n       a<-«it      nnA      4  r*r  ^     ^1  m  i  o-k  *  n  via        ■     1 :  «*<>    wWK/^..**    tm*.^.!  #<li.«  <.t.f     <-.<*    aM-.T,! .1     r..^ .    ..,1    -#     ^-     t.'^ 


'EXTRACT. 


I  according  to  their  rcsjiecUvc  acni  ■ 
1  fault  of  such  issue  to  the  iisn  of  ?  i 
I  ters  and  daughter  of  uiy  laid  gra:. 
>  in   common    in   tall  with   cross    i 
',  amongst  them  in  t«il  nnd  if  all  i]\' 


parish  surgeon,  who.practices  at  Stanfield,  in  Lin- '  of  my  said  grandson  Philip  to  the  n 
folnnhire;  the  other  is  an  old  maid,  and  entirely  i  other  son  of  my  said  grandson  sc 
dependent  upon  her  brother.  ; 

'It   is  this  man,  Paul  Marchmont,  the  artist, ; 
whom  I  fear.  | 

•Do  not  think  me  weak,  or  foolishly  iu"ipicious,; 

Arundel,  when  1  tell  you  that  the  very  thouRht  of  <  f;'''"'*^';'", '''"">'  "'=•1''  ""•  ?''«", 
..  •     _        u  •  .1.  ij  .  _i     /■       u      J    '  there  shall  he  hut  one  such  <Viii .' 

this  man  brings  the  cold  sweat  upon  my  forehead,  j  ^^^.^  one  or  only  daughter  in 
and  saema  to  stop  the  beating  of  ray  heart.  I  know  l  bsuethcn  to  the  use  of  the  s 
that  this  is  a  prejudice,  and  an  unworthy  one.    1  ?  my  skid  eldest  sou  severally 
do  not  believe  Paul  Marchmont  is  a  good  man;' !''"'^«I'^<''''1« '['"'^y'^^ '"  ^*',' *''.' 

...  a-    ■      A  r  \.    A      J  {  to  tb«  us»  of  all  and  ivi  ry  the  da;., 

bat  I  caa  asiiin  no  suflicient  raaion  for  my  hatred  n,y  ga,,,  eldest  son  Philip  «•  ten» 
and  terror  of  Rim.      It  is  iropessible  for  you,  a' witbcrouremaiaden between  or  aiu^ 


or 

■■.iii 
r  ir 

r.f 

.'h 

f 


f 

;jt  tijCDi  iQ  (Ail  tad 


12 


JOHN  MARCHMONT'S  LEGACY. 


in  default  of  such  issue  to  the  use  of  my  second  son  Mar-'!  of  bricks  to  your  ever  devoted  friend,  country- 
madube  and  his   assigns  during  the  terra  of   his  natural  :^  man,  and  brother,  Edgardo,. 

life  wUhou;  impeach.neot  of  waste  and  after  his  decease  to  s     ,^.,  jiov;t\gi'b  Sqiiark,  Dec.  -31,  183S.'» 
the  use  of  the  first  and  every  son  of  my  said  son  Marma- ■;        ^'  „'    r,       i      u       j       u  tu-   i         •»      ,• 

duke  severally  a  iteucces^i/ely  according  to  their  respect- !  'P.  S.  By-lhe-by,  don 't  you  think  a  Situation  m 
ive  seniorities  in  tail  and  for  default  of  .■<U'-h  issue  to  the  ■  a  lawyer's  office  would  suit  you  better  than  the 
use  of  all  and  every  the  daughters  and  dau-hterof  ray  said  ;  rp  ^  q  t  >  jf  ..0^  Jq^  j  think  I  could  manace 
son  Marmaduke  as  tenants  iii  common  in  tail  with  cross  ;  .  .   hannv  new  vear  to  Miss  Marv  " 

remainders  between  or  amongst  them  in  tail  and  if  all  the  (  "•     A  "appy  new  year  lo  lujss  iuary  . 
da^jRlifcs  of  my  said  son  Marmaduke  except  one  shall  die  ; 

-Tithout  issue  oi-  if  there  shall  hn  but  one  sucli  daughter  J  Jt  was  thus  that  Mr.  Edward  Arundel  accepted 
then  to  the  use  of  such  one  or  only  daughter  in  tail  andin  /  ^^j^  solemn  trust  which  his  friend  confided  to  him 
defnult  of  such  issue  ihen  to  the  use  of  my  third  son  .lohn  )  .        ,,  ,.    .,  j    „„„j    /•  -jl        m  m        i 

during  the  term  of 'i.is  natural  life  without  impeachmeut  m  all  sMiiplicity  and  good  laith.  Mary  March- 
of  wasie  and  from  and  after  his  decease  then  to  the  useof  <mont  hfi'selt  was  not  more  mnocent  in  the  ways 
my  gi'amisou  John  the  first  .■^im  of  my  said  son  John  dur-.{  of  the  world  outside  Oakley  Street,  the  Waterloo 
iug  the  t^erm  of  his  natural  life  without  impea-hment  of )  (^  ^  ^  ^^g  f|e^  Cut,  than  was  the  little  girl's 
waste  and  :>.lier  the  deceise  of  my  said  g'undson  John  to  < ','  .1  •  ;V'  j       „  t        1  ^     u-      ^l 

the  use  of  the  first  and  every  other  son  of  my  said  grand-  <  father;  nothiiij^  seemed  more  natural  to  him  than 
son  John  severally  and  euccessively  according  totheirre- ;  to  intrust  the  doubtlul  future  of  his  only  child  to 
tpective  seniority  in  tail  ami  f.>r  dt^auit  of  such  issufe  to  ■'  jhe  bright-faccd,  handsome  boy,  whose  early  boy- 
theuse  of  all  and  evel-y  the  daughters  and  daughter  of  my  )  ^j,^  been  luiblemished  by  a  mean  sentiment 
said  grandson   Jolin  as  tenants   m  common  in    tad  with  J  "'-"^" '.  ,  ,,  ,.r  t   i        i\i        i  ^  u     i 

cross  remainders-between  or  amongtlicmin  tail  and  if  all  or  a  dishonorable  acti6n.  John  Marchmont  had 
the  daughters  of  my  said  grandson  John  exjbpt  one  shall  f  spent  three  years  in  the  Berkshire  Academy,  at 
die  wixhout  issue  or  if  there  shfill  be  bur.  one  such  daugh-(^hich  Edward  and  his  cousin,  Martin  Mostyn, 
ter'  [This,  you  will  see,  is  my  Uttle  iMaryl  'then  to  the  use. ,      ,  .  prlnntpd-  and  vounfr  Arundpl     who  wt« 

of  suchoneor  only  daughter  in  tail  and  in  default  of  such  ;  had  been  eaucaieci,  ana  young  niunaei,  wno  was 
Issue  then  to  the  use  of  ;he  eecoud  and  every  other  son  of  far  behind  his  kinsman  in  ihe  comprehension  of  a 
my  said  third  son  John  sVveraily  and  successiviii/  accord- '  problem  in  algebra,  had  been  wise  enough  to  rec- 
ing  to  his  respective.' seniority  in  tailantiin  default  of  such  <  o„nize  that  which  Martin  Moslyn  could  not  under- 
Issueto  the  use  of  .all  and  every  the  ilaughterj  and  daugh-  ;  ^P^„^  „  o-p,illprmn*in  i  sh-ihbv  rmt  ft  wa«  thii« 
ter  of  my  said  third  son  John-as  tenants  in  common  in  tail  i  ^^^"'^—^.  S^'?V®"^"  ,^"  a  .snaony  coat.    It  was  thus 


witli  cross  remainders  heiween  or  amongst  them  in  tail   that  a  fritmdship  had  arisen  between  the  teaclu  i- 
^nd  indii'aul:  of  such,  issue  to  the  use  of  mv  fourth  sifu  'of  mathematics  and  his  handsojne  pupil;  and  it 
Paufcdujing  the  term  of  l;is  natural  life  without  impeach- j/^^^  thus  that  an   unreasoning   belief  in  Edward 
ment  of  waste  and  from  and  after  his  decease  then  to  the  /  »     '    S    ■  ,      1  ,.^^„„„  „,.  ;„   1^1?,, 'c.  o;.„„i         •     1 
use  of  my  grandson  Paul  the  son  of  niy  said  son  Paul  dur-    A^'^r^del  bad  sprung  up  in  .iohn  S  Simple  mind. 

ichmeiit  of  wiu^te   and/     'If  my  little  girl  were  certain  of  inheriting  the 

" find 

and 

ancc 

I  cannot  forget  how  the 


ing  his  iiatuial   life    without  impeachmei 


a   daugiiter  of  my  said  grandson    is  such  a    remote  one. 


every  the  daughters 

Paul  as  tenants  in  coir.raoi:  in  tail  with  cross  remainders  jews  laughed  at  mc  two  years  aeo,  when  I  tried 
between  or  amon*rn-  them  in  tail  and  if  all  the  daughters '  ,„  borrow  moncv  unon  niv'reversionarv  interest 
of  my  said  grandson  Paul  except  one  shah  rtie  without,  issue  ,°  Durrow  moiRj  upon  my  ie>  eistoriary  iniercsi. 
or  if  taei-e  shall  be  but  one  such  daughter  then  to  the  use  1  No,  I  must  trust  this  brave-hearted  boy,  lor  I  have 
of  such  one  oc  only  daughter  in  tail  and  in  default  of  such  ^  no  one  else  to  confide  in ;  and  who  else  is  there 
issue  then  to  *e  use  of  the  second  and  every  other  son  of 'who  would  not  ridieuie  my  fear  of  my  cousin 
my  said  fourtj  son  Paul  severally  and  successively  accord- '  pi  -,> 

ing  to  hi?  respective  seniority  in  tail  and  in  default  of  such ',  ^,,"      ,  ,»       ht        1  ..  1     i  .     , 

issue  totlK  use  of  all  and  every  the  daughters  and  dau-ii- .'  Indeed  Mr.  Marchniont  had  some  reason  to  be 
ter  of  my  said  fourth  sou  Paul  as  tenants  in  common  in  t'^aii 'considerably  ashamed  ol"  his  antipathy  to  the 
with  C10S6  remainder.?  between  or  amongst  ihem  in  tail,' >  young  artist,  working  for  his  bread,  and  for  the 
*"'''•' ^''^"  j  bread  of  his  invalid  mother  and  unmarried  sister, 

'P.  S.  Then'  cones  v/hat  the  lawyers  call  a  >  in  that  bitter  winter  of  ';i8;  working  patiently  and 
general  devise — to  trustees  to  preserve  the  con- '  hopefully,  in  spite  of  ail  discouragement,  and  cori- 
tingent  remainders  before  devised  from  beingde-  tent  to  live  a  joyless  and  monotonous  life  in  a 
stroj'sd;  but  v/hat  that  means  perhaps  vou  can  dingy  loflging  near  Fitzroy  Square.  1  can  find  no 
gel  somebody  to  tell  me.  1  hope  it  maybe  some 'excuse  for  John  Marchmont's  prejudice  against 
legal  jargon  to  preserve  my  i-cj-i/, contingent  re- .'an  industrious  and  indefatigable  young  man,  who 
mainder,  as  it  appears  to  mc'  •        was  the  sole  support  of  two  helpless  women. — 

Heaven  knoAvs,  if  to  be  adored  by  two  women  is 

The  tone  of  Edward  Arundel's  answer  to  this   any  evidence  of  a  man's  virtue,  Paul  must  have 

letter  was  more  characteri.stic  of  the  writer  than  .been  the  best  of  men;  for  Stephanit;  Marchmont 

in  harmony  witii  poor  John's  solemn  ai)peal.         ^and  her  daughter  Clarisse  regarded  the  artist  with 

,..,.       ,  r    1-1      11   Tt      1  »a  reverential  idolatry  that  was  notwithout  atinge 

'You  dear,  fooash  o  d  Marchmont,'  the  lad  Lf  romance.      I  cdn  assign  no  reason,  then,  for 

wrote;  'of  course  1  shall  lake  care  of  Miss  Mary;  bohn's   ^y^^^-^^  ^f  his  cousin.      They   had  been 

aQdraymothershalladopthei-,  and  sue  shall  live   school-fellows  at  a  wretched   suburban  school, 

at  Daugerfield,  anu  tie  educuted  with  my  sister  i  where  the  children  of  poor  people  were  boarded, 

Letitu,who  has  Ine  jolhesL  trench  governess,   lodged,  and  educated  all  the  year  round  for  a  piti- 

and  a  Germati  maid  lor  conversation;  and  don't  If ul Stipend  of  something  under  twenty  pounds.— 

let  Paul  Marchmont  try  ori  any  oi  his  games  with  ?  One  of  the  special  points  of  the  prospectus  was 

xne,  thats  ali.      i.ut   what  do  you  mean,  you  Uhe  announcement  that  there  were  no  holidays; 

ridiculous  old  boy,  oy  talking  about  dying,  and   for  the  jovial  Christmas  gatherings  of  merry  faces 

drowning,  and  shipwrecked  mariners,  and  catch-  which  are  so  delightful  to  the  wealthy  citizens  of 

tng  at  straws,  and  all  that  sort  of  humbug,  when  Bloomsbury   or    Tybu-rnia,   take   another    com- 

you  know  very  well  that  you  11  live  to  inherit  the  plexion   in  'poverty-stricken   households,  whose 

iiincolnshire  property,  and  that  Im  coming  to  Ucantily-stocked  larders  can  ill  support  the  raids 

you  every  year  to  shoot,  and  that  yo^i  're  going  to  i  of  raw-boned  lads  clamorous  for  provender.   The 

build  a  tennis-court— ol  course  there  is  a  billiard-  two  boys  had  met  at  a  school  of  this  calibre,  and 

room— and  that  you  re  gomg  to  have  a  stud  of  had  never  met  since.     They  may  not  have  been 

hunters,  and  be  master  of  the  hounds/and  tio  end  I  the  best  friends,  perhaps,  at  the  clasgical  academy; 


jOHi\  marchmo;nt's  legacy. 


13 


but  their  quarrels  were  by  no  means  desperate.  I  son,  as  copying  and  outdoor  clerk,  at  a  salary  of 
They  may  have  rather  freely  discussed  their  sev-  ( thirty  shillings  a  week. 

eral  chances  of  the  Lincolnshire  property;  but  I ;  So  little  Mary  entered  now  upon  a  golden  age, 
have  no  romantic  story  to  tell  of  a  stirring  scene  ;  in  which  her  evenings  were  no  longer  desolate  and 
in  the  humble  school-room,  no  exciting  record  of '.  lonely,  but  spent  pleasantly  with  her  father  in  the 
deadly  insult  and  deep  vows  of  vengeance.  No  J  study  of  such  learning  as  was  suited  to  her  years, 
inkstand  was  ever  flung  by  one  boy  inlo  the  face  or  perhaps  rather  to  her  capacity,  which  was  far 
of  the  other;  no  savage  blow  from  a  horsewhip  beyond  her  years;  and  on  certain  delicious  nights, 
ever  cut  a  fatal  scar  across  the  brow  of  either  of  to  be  remembered  ever  afterward,  John  March- 
the  cousins.  .Tohn  Marehniont  would  have  been  mont  took  his  little  girl  to  the  gallery  of  one  or 
almost  as  puzzled  to  account  for  his  objection  to  ,  other  of  the  transpontine  thealre«:  and  I  am  sorry 
his  kinsman  as  was  the  nameless  gentleman  who  to  say  that  my  heroine — for  sl'ie  is  to  be  my  hero- 
so  naively  confessed  his  dislike  of  Dr.  Fell.  Ifearine^  by-and-by — sucked  oranges,  ate  Abernethy 
that  a  great  many  of  our  likings  and  dislikings  ;  biscuits,  and  cooled  her  delicate  nose  against  the 
are  too  apt  to  be  upon  fclR-  Dr.  Fell  principle. —  iron  railing  of  the  gallery,  after  the  manner  of  the 
Mr.  Wilkie  CoUins's  Basil  could  not  tell  icliy  he  ;  masses  when  they  enjoy  the  British  Drama, 
fell  madly  in  love  with  ttic  lady  whom  it  was  his  But  all  this  time  .lohn  Marchmont  was  utterly 
evil  fortune  to  meet  in  an  omnibus;  nor  why  he  ignorant  of  one  rather  important  fact  in  the  his-» 
entertained  an  uncomfortable  feeling  about  the  tory  of  those  three  lives  whic^h  he  was  apt  to 
gentleman  who  was  to  be  her  destroyer.  David  'speak  of  as  standing  between  him  and  Marchmont 
Coppertield  disliked  Uriah  Ileep  even  before  he  Towers.  Young  Arthur  Marchmont,  the  imme- 
had  any  substantial  reason  for  objecting  to  the  jdiatc  heir  of  the  estate,  had  been  shot  to  death 
evil  genius  of  Agnes  Wickfield's  father.  The  j  upon  the  1st  of  September,  1838,  without  blame 
boy  disliked  the  snake-like  schemer  of  Canterbury  •]  to  any  one  or  any  thing  but  his  own  boyish  care- 
because  his  eyes  were  round  and  md,  and  his  lessncss,  which  had  induced  him  to' scramble 
hands  clammy  and  unpleasant  to  the  touch.  Per-  through  a  hedge  with  a  superb  fowling-piece,  the 
haps  John  Marchmont's  reasons  for  his  aversion  costly  present  of  a  doting  father,  loaded  ar^d  on 
to  his  cousin  were  about  as  substantial  as  these  of  ^  full-cock.  This  melancholy  event,  which  had 
Master  Copperfield's.  It  may  be  that  the  school- <  been  briefly  recorded  in  all  the  newspapers,  had 
l»oy  disliked  his  comrade  because  Paul  March-  never  reached  the  knowledge  of  poor  .tohn  March- 
mont's handsome  gray  eyes  were  a  little  too  near  '  mont,  who  had  no  friends  to  busy  themselves 
together;  because  his  thin  and  delicately-chiseled  '.  about  his  interests,  or  to  rush  eagerly  to  carry  him 
.lips  were  a  thought  loo  tightly  compressed;  be- ;*  any  intelligence  afl'ecting  his  prosperity.  Nor  had 
cause  his  cheeks  would  fade  to  an  awful  corpse- i  he  read  the  obituary  notice  respecting  Aftrma- 
like  whiteness  under  circumstances  which  would  duke  Marchmont,  the  bachelor,  who  had  breathed 
have  brought  thc'rushing»life-blood,  hot  and  red,  ,  his  last  stertorous  breath  in  a  lit  of  apoplexy  ex- 
into  another  boy's  face;  because  he  was  silent  and  actly  one  twelvemonth  before  the  day  upon  which 
suppressed  when  it  would  have  been  more  natural  Edward  Arundel  had  breakfasted  in  Oaklev 
to  be  loud  and  clamorous;  because  he  could  smile  Street, 
under  provpcations  that  would  have  made  another  ^ 

frown;  because,  in    short,  there  was  that  about  '  .         •  

him  which,  let^t  tie   found  where  it  will,  always  ^  *^* 

gives  birth  to  suspicion — mtstery. 

So  the  cousins  had  parted,  neither  friends  nor  '• 
foes,  to  tread  <heir  separate  roads  in  the  unknown  • 
country,  which  is  apt  to  seem  barren  and  desolate  . 
enough  to  travellers  who  foot  it  in  hob-nailed  ,' 
boots  considerably  the  worse  for  wear;  and  as  the  Edward  Abukdei.  went  from  Montague  Square 
iron  hand  of  poverty  held  John  Marchmont  even  straight  into  the  household  of  the  private  tutor 
further  back  than  Paul  upon  the  hard  road  which,  of  whom  he  had  spoken,  there  Incomplete  his 
each  had  to  tread,  the  <|uiet  pride  of  the  teacher  education,  and  to  1)C  prepared  for*c  onerous du- 
of  mathematics  most  etfectually  kept  him  out  of  ties  of  a  military  life.  From  the  household  of 
his  kinsman's  way.  He  had  only  heard  enough  /  his  private  tutor  he  went  at  once  into  a  cavalry 
of  Paul  to  know  llift  he  was  living  in  London,  regiment,  after  sundry  examinations,  which  were 
and  working  hard  for  a  living;  working  as  hard  not  nearly  so  stringent  in  the  year  one' thousand 
as  John  himself,  perhaps,  but.  at  least  able  to:  eight  hundred  and  forty  as  they  have  since  be- 
keep  afloat  in  a  higher  socinl  position  than  the  come.  Indeed,  I  think  the  unfortunate  young  ca-^ 
law-stationers   hack  and   the   banner-holder   of  defs  who  are  educated  upon  the  high-pressure  sys- 


CHAPTER  IV. 


OOING    AWAY. 


Drury  Lane. 


tcni,  and  who  are  expected  to  give  a  synopsis  of 


But  Edward  Arundel  did  not  forget  his  friends,  Portuguese  political  intrigue  during  the  eighleenth 
in  Oakley  Street.  The  boy  made  a  morning  call  {  century,  a  scienlitic  account  of  the-  currents  oT 
upon  his  father's  solicitors,  Messrs.  Paulelte, ;  the  Red  Sea,  and  a  critical  disquisition  upon  the 
Paulettc,  and  Mathewson,  of  Lincoln's  Inn  Fields,  j  comedies  of  Aristophanes  as  compared  with  those 
and  was  so  extremely  eloquent  in  his  needy  of  Pedro  Calderon  de  la  Barca — not  forgetting  to 
friend's  cause  as  to  pmvoke  the  good-natured  '  glance  at  the  eriect  of  dilferent  ages  and  na'ionali- 
laughter  of  one  of  the  jwiior  partners,  who  de- J  ties  upon  the  respective  minds  of  the  two  play- 
dared  that  Mr.  Edward  Arundel  ought  to  wear  :  Wrights,  within  a  given  period  of,  say  half  an  hour 
a  silk  gown  before  he  was  thirty.  The  result  oft — would  have  envied  Mr.  Arundel  for  the  easj 
this  interview  was,  that  before  the  first  month  of  ]  manner  in  which  he  obtained  his  commission  in  a 
the  new  year  was  out,  John  Marchmont  had  aban-  j  distinguished  cavalry  regiment.  Edward  Arundel 
doned  the  classic  banner  and  the  demoniac  mrask  ;  theretorc  inaugurated  the  commencement  of  the 
to  a  fortunate  successor,  and  had  taken  possession  year  1840  by  plunging  very  deeply  inlo  the  books 
of  a  hard-scaled,  slim-legged  stool  in  oAe  of  the  j  of  a  crack  military  tailor  in  New  Burlington 
offices  of  Messrs.  PauletteTPauIcfte,  and  M»thcw-»  Street,  and  by  a  visit  to  Duiger6cld  Park,  where 


14 


JOHN  MARCH  MONT'S  LEGACY.. 


he  went  to  make  his  adieux  before  sailing  for 
India,  whither  his  regiment  had  just  been  ordered. 

1  do  not  doubt  that  Mrs.  Arundel  was  verv sor- 
rowful at  this  sudden  parting,  with  her  yellow- 
haired  younger  son.  The  boy  and  his  mother 
wa!i?ed  together  in  the  wintry  sunset  under  the 
leafless  beeches  at  Dangerfield,  and  talked  of  the 
dreary  voyage  that  lay  before  the  lad,  tlie  arid 
plairte  and  cruel  jungles  far  away;  perils  by  sea 
and  perils  by  land;  but  across  them  all,  Fame 
waving  her  white  arms,  beckoning  to  the  young 
soldier,  and  crying,  'Come,  conqueror  that  shall 
be  !  come,  through  trial  and  darger,  through  fever 
and  famine — come  to  your  rest  upon  my  blood- 
stained lap!'  Surely  this  boy,  being  only  just 
eighiten  years  of  age,  may  be  l^orgiveii  if  he  is  a 
little  romantic,  a  little  over-eager  and  impression- 
able, a  little  too  confident  that  the  next  thing  to 
going  out  to  India  as  a  seasick  subaltern  in  a 
great  transport  ship,  is  coming  home  with  the 
reputation  of -a  Clive.  Perhaps  he  may  be  for- 
given, too,  if,  in  his  fresh  enthusiasm,  he  some- 
times forgot  the  shabby  friend  whom  he  had  helped 
little  oetter  than  a"twelvemonth  before,  and  the 
earnest  hazel  eyes  tliat  had  shone  upon  him  in  the 
pitiful  Oakley  Street  chamber.  I  do  not  say  that 
he  was  utterly  unmindful  of  his  old  teacher  of 
mathematics.  It  was  not  in  his  nature  to  forget 
any  one  who  had  need  of  his  services;  for  this 
boy,  so  eager  to  be  a  soldier,  was  of  the  chival- 
0  rous  temperament,  and  would  have  ^one  out  to 
die  for  his  mistress,  or  his  friend,  it  need  had 
been.  He  had  received  two  or  three  grateful  let- 
ters, from  John  Marchmont,  in  each  of  which  the 
lawyer's  clerk  spoke  pleasantly  of  his  new  life, 
and  hopefully  of  his  health,  which  had  improved 
considerably,  he  said,  since  his  resignation  of  the 
tragic  banner  and  the  pantomimic  mask.  Neither 
had  Edward  quite  forgotten  his  promise  of  en- 
listing Mrs.  Arundel's  sympathies  in  aid  of  the 
motherless  little  girl.  In  one  of  ttiese  wintry 
walks  beneath  the  black  branches  at  Dangerfield, 
the  lad  had  told  the  sorrowful  story  of  his  well- 
born tutor's  poverty  and  humiliation. 

'Only  think,  mother!'  he  cried,  ht  the  end  of 
the  little  histoiy.  '1  saw  the  poor  fellow  carry- 
ing a  great  calico  flag,  and  marching  about  at  the 
heel  of  a  procession,  to  be  laughed  at  by  the  cos- 
termongers  in  the  gallery;  and  I  know  that  he  is 
descended  from,  a  capital  Lincolnshire  family, 
and  will  come  in  for  no  end  of  money  if  he  only 
lives  long  enough.  But  if  he  should  die,  mother, 
and  leave  his  little  girl  destitute,  you'll  look  after 
her,  won't  you.'' 

I  don't  know  whether  Mrs.  Arundel  quite  en- 
tered into  her  son's  ideas  upon  the  subject  of 
adopting  Mary  Marchmout,  or  whether  she  had 
any  definitb  notion  of  bringing  the  little  girl  home 
to  Dangerfield  for  the  natural  term  of  her  life,  in 
the  event  of  the  child  being  left  an  orphan.  But 
she  was  a  kind  and  charitable  lady,  and  she 
scarcely  cared  to  damp  her  boy's  spirits  by  hold- 
ing forth  upon  the  doubtful  wisdom  of  his  adopt- 
ing, or  promising  to  adopt,  any  stray  orphans 
who  might  cross  his  pathway. 

*I  hope  the  little  girl  may  not  lose  her  father, 
Edward,'  she  said,  gently.  'Besides,  dear,  you 
say  that  Mr.  Marchmont  tells  you  hehas  humble 
friends,  who  would  take  the  child  if  any  thing 
happened  to  him.  He  does  not  wish  us  to  adopt 
the  little  girl;  he  only  asks  us  to  interest  our- 
■elres  in  her  fate.' 

'And  you  will  do  that,  mother  darling.''  cried 
the  boy.    'You  will  taJcc  au  intercit  in  her,  won't 


you.^  You  couldn't  help  doing" »o  if  you  were  to 
see  her.  She's  not  like  a  child,  you  know — not  a 
bit  like  Letitia.  She  is  as  grave  and  quiet  as  you 
are,  mother — or  graver,  I  think;  and  she  looks 
quite  a  lady,  in  spite  of  her  poor,  shabby  pina- 
fore and  frock.' 

'Does  she  wear  shabby  frocks?'  said  the  mo- 
ther. 'I  could  help  her  in  that  matter,  at  all 
events.  Ned.  1  might  send  her  a  great  trunk  full 
of  Letitia 's  things.  She  outgrows  them  lon^  be- 
fore they  are  shabby.' 

The  boy  colored  and  shook  his  head. 

'It's  very  kind  of  y.ou  to  think  of  it,  mother 
dear;  but  I  don't  think  that  would  quite  answer,' 
he  said. 

'Whvnot.?'    , 

'Because,  you  see,  John  Marchmont  is  a  gen- 
tleman; and,  you  know,  though  he's  so  dread- 
fully poor  now.  he  is  heir  to  Marchmont  Towers. 
And  iho.ugh  he  didn't  mind  doing  any  thing  in 
the  world  to  earn  a  few  shillings  a  week,  he 
mightn't  like  to  take  cast-ofl  clothes.' 

So  nothing  more  was  to  be  said  or  done  upon 
the  subject. 

Edward  Aundel  wrote  his  humble  friend  a 
pleasant  letter,  in  which  he  told  John  that  ha 
had  tenlisted  his  mother's  sympajthy  in  Mary's 
cause,  and  in  which  he  spoke  in  very  glowing 
terms  of  the  Indian  expedition  that  lay  befor^ 
him. 

'I  wish  I  could  come  to  say  good-bye  to  you 
and  Miss  Mary  before  I  go,'  he  wrote;  but  that's 
impossible.  1  go  straight  from  here  to  South- ' 
ampton  by  coach  at  the  end  of  this  month,  and 
the  ^^uckland  sails  on  th^  2d  of  February.  Toll 
Miss  Mary  I  shall  bring  her  home  all  kindi  of 
pretty  presents  from  Afghanistan-r-ivory  fans,  and 
Cashmere  shawls,  and  Chinese  puzzles,  and  em- 
broidered slippers  with  turned-up  toes,  and  dia- 
monds, and  atter  of  roses,  and  such  like;  and  ro- 
meuiber  that  I  expect  you  to  write  to  me,  and  to 
give  me  the  earliest  news  of  youV  coming  into 
the  Lincolnshire  property.' 

John  Marchmont  received  this  Jetter  in  tba 
middle  of  January.  He  gave  o  despondent  sigh 
as  he  refolded  the  boyish  epistle  after  reading  it 
to  his  little  girl. 

'We  haven't  so  many  friends,  Polly,'  he'said, 
'that  we  should  be  indifferent  to  the  loss  of  this 
one^' 

Mary  Marchmont's  cheek  grew  paler  at  her 
father's  sorrowful  speech.  That  imaginative  tem- 
perament, which  was,  as  I  have  said,  almost  mor- 
bid in  its  intensity,  presented  every  object  to  the 
little  girl  in  a  light  in  which  thing*  arc  looked  at 
by  very  few  children;  Only  these  few  words, 
and  her  fancy  roamed  far  away  to  that  cruc]  land 
whose  perils  her  father  had  described  to  her. 
Only  these  few  words,  and  she  was  away  in  the 
rocky  Bolan  Pass,  under  hurricanes  of  drifting 
snow;  she  saw  the  hungry  soldiers  fighting  with 
savage  dogs  for  the  possession  of  foul  carrion. 
She  had  heard  all  the  perils  and  difficulties  which 
had  befallen  the  Army  of  the  Indus  in  the  year 
'39,  and  the  womanly  #3art  sank  under  those 
cruel  memories. 

'He  will  go  to  India  and  be  killed,  papa  dear,' 
she  said.  'Oh,  why,  why  do  they  let  him  go.' 
His  mother  can^  love  him,  can  she  ?  She  WQuld 
never  let  him  go  if  she  did.* 

John  Marchmont  was  obliged  to  explain  to  his 
daughter  that  motherly  love  must  not  go  so  far  as 
to  deprive  a  nation  of  its  defenders;  and  that  tk« 
richest  jewels  which  Cornelia  ctn  give  to  her 


JOHN  MARCHMONT'S  LEGACY 


15 


country  are  those rubv  life-drops  which  flow  from  ^brandy-bottle  and  the  dice-box;  and,  baring  done 
the  hearts  of  her  bravest  and  brightest  sons.  \  this,  believed  that  he  had  performed  his  duty  as 
Mary  was  a  poor  political  economist;  she  could 'an  Englishman  and  a  father, 
not  reason  upon  the  necessity  of  chastising  Per-/  If  Mrs.  Arundel  wept  she  wept  ui  secret,  loth 
eian  insolence,  or  checking' Russian  encroach-^  to  discourage  her  son  by  the  sight  of  those  natu- 
ments  upon  the  far-away  shores  of  the  Indus.  Iral,  womanly  tears,  'if  JVliss  Letitia  Arm, del 
Was  Edward  Arundel'i  bright  head,  with  its/ was  sorry  to  lose  her  brother  she  mourned  with 
aureola  of  yellow  hair,  to  be  cloven  asunder  by  '>  most  praiseworthy  discretion,  and  did  not  lorget 
an  Afghan  resegade's  sabre,  because  the  young)  lo  remind  the  young  liaveler  liiatshe  expeclrd  to 
Shah  of  Persia  had  been  contumacious  .'  )  rpeeive  a  mu?lin  frock  embroidered  with  beetle- 

Mary  Marchmont  wept  silently  that  day  over  a ;!  wings  by  an  early  mail.  And  as  Algernon  Fair- 
three-volume  rovel,>whileher  father  was  away  >  Hix  Dangerfield  Arundel,  the  heir,  was  away  at 
8e>  ving  writs  upon  wretched  insolvents,  in  his  ca-  /  college,  there  was  no  one  else  to  mourn.  So  Ed- 
pacity  of  outdoor  clerk  to  Messrs.  Paulette,  Pau-')  ward  left  the  house  of  liis  forefathers  by  a  branch 
lette,  and  Mathewson.  < coach,  which  started  from  the 'Arundel  Arms   in 

The  young  ladv  no  longer  spent  her  quiet  day,s  ■  time  to  meet  the  'Telegraph'  at  Exeter;  and  nu 
in  the  two-pair  bark.  Mr.  Marchmont  and  his  noisy  lamentations  shook  the  sky  above  Uangcr- 
daiigbter  had  remained  fathfnl  to  OaU  ley  Strtet,  ;•  field  Park,  no  mourning  voices  eclioid  through 
and  the  proiirictress  of  the  ladies' wardrobe,  who  the  spacious  rooms.  The  oW  servants  Avera 
was  a  good,  motherly  creatuio;  but  they  had  de-;' sorry  to  lose  the  ymingcr-born,  whose  easy,  ge- 
Bcended  to  the  grandeur  of  the  first  floor,  whose  nial  temperament  had  made  him  an  especial  la- 
gorgeous  decorations  Mary  had  glanced  at  fur-' vo-ite;  but  there  was  a  certain  adiiiixtuie  of  jo- 
lively  in  the  days  gone  by,  when  the  splendid  :•  viality  with  liuir  sorrow,  as  there  generally  is 
chambers  were  Occupied  by'aa  elderly  and  repro-,' with  all  niournii.g  in  the  baseuictil;  and  the  strong 
bate  commission  agent,  who  seemed  ikleriy  indif-'ale,  the  famous  Dangcrfield  October,  went  lasttr 
fcrent  to  the  delights  of  a  convex  mirror,  sup- ,■  upon  that  3Ist  of  January  than  upon  any  day 
ported  by  a  gilded  but  crippled  eagle,  whose  dig- 'since  Christmas.  • 

uity  was  somewhat  impaired  l)y  the  loss  of^^  ■  I  doubt  if  any  one  at  Dangerfield  Patk  sor- 
wing;  but  which  bijou  appeared  to  Mary  to  be  alrowed  as  bitterl}  for  the  departure  of  the  boyish 
fitting  adornment  for  the  joung  Queen's  pciiacf  in  soldier  as  a  romantic  young  lady  cf  nine  yeais 
St.  James's  Park.  •  -old,  in  Oakky >treei,  Lambeth,  vshose  onestnti- 

But  neither  the  eagle  nor  the  third  volun*  of  ajmenta!  day-dream,  half  childish,  half  womanly-, 
thrilling  romance  could  comfort  Mary  upon  ihisi  owned  Edward  Arundel  as  its  centre  figure, 
bleak  January  day.  She  shut  her  book,  and  stood  So  tile  curiam  (i^ls  on  the  picture  of  a  brave 
by  the  window,  looking  out  into  the  dreary  street, !  sbip  sailing  eastward,  her  white  canva.s  strained 
.that  seemed  so  blotted  and  dim  under  the  falling  j  against  the  cold  gray  February  sky,  and  a  little 
9U0W.  »  \  girl  weeping  over  the  tattered   pages  ol  a  stupid 

'It  snowed  in  the  Puss  of  Bolan,'  she  thought;-  novel  in  a  shabby  London  lodging, 
'and  the  treacherous  Indians  harassed  the  brave  : 

ioldiers,  and  killed  their  camels.     What  will  be-  ^j^ 

come  of  him   in  that  drcad/ul   country.'     Shall  "  .*** 

wc  ever  see  him  again.''  * 

Yes,  Mary,  to  your  sorrow.  Indian  cimeters  , 
will  let  him  go  scathless,  famine  and  fever  will  •. 
pass  him  by;  but  the  hand  which  points  to  tliut  ■; 
far-away  day  on  which  you  and  he  arc  to  meet  , 
will  never  fail  or  falter  in  it«"|purpose  |unlil  that ;'.  Therk  is  a  lapse  of  three  years  and  a  half  be- 
day  comeg.  !  tween  the  acts;  and  the  curtain  rises  to  reveal  a 

!  widely-ditTcr»-nl   picture:  the  picture  of  a  noble 

We  hare  no  need  to  dwell  upon  the  prepara-  mansion  in  the  tlat  Lincolnshire  country ;  a  Stately 
tions  which  were  made  for  the  young  soldier  s  de- /  pile  of  building,  standing  proudly  forth  ag«inst 
uarture  from  home,  nor  on  the  tender  farewells )  a  back-ground  of  black  woodland;  a  noble  build- 
between  the  mother  and  son.  / '"g»  supported  *upon  either  side  by  an  odagon 

Mr.  Arundel  was  a  country  gentleman  ;)ur  e/ j  tow-er,  whose  solid  masonry  is  half  hidden  by 
simple;  a  hearty,  broad-shouldered  squire,  who  ;;  the  ivy  which  clings  about  the  stone-work,  trail- 
had  no  thought  above  his  farm  and  his  dog-keimel,  .  ing  here  and  there,  and  flapping  restlessly  with 
Br  the  hunting  of  the  red*iecr,  with  which  hi.'^ ;  every  breath  of  wind  against  the  narrow  case- 
neighborhood  abounded.    He  sent  his  younger  son  )  nients. 

to  India  as  coolly  as  he  had  senf  the  elder  lo  Ox-;  A  broad  stone  terrace  stretches  the  entire  length 
ford.  The  hoy  had  little  lo  inherit,  and  must  be ;  of  the  grim  fu(;^ade,  from  tower  to  tower,  and 
jtrovided  for  in  a  gentlemanly  manner.  Other  three  flinhls  of  steps  lead  from  the  terrace  to  the 
younger  sous  of  the  house  of  Arundel  had  fought ;  broad  lawn,  whi/h  loses  itself  in  a  vasl  grassy 
and  conquered  in  the  Honorable  East  India  Com- ^  flat,  only  broken  by  a  few  clumps  of  trees  and  a 
pany's  service;  and  was  Kdirard"  any  better  than  ;,  dispial  pool  of  black  water,  but  called  by  cour- 
them,  that  there  should  be  sentimental  whining^  lesy  ;«  park.  Giim  stone  pri(fin-i  surmount  the 
because  the  lad  was  going  away  to  fight  his  wav^  terrace  slcps,  and  griffins'  heaiN  and  oilier  ar- 
to  fortune,  if  he  could.'  He  even  went  fnrthar  <  chileclural  nionstrosiiies,  worn  and  mo-'-'-grown, 
than  this,  and  declared  that  Master  Edward  was )  keep  watch  and  ward  over  every  door  and  win- 
a  lucky  dog  to  be  going  out  at  such  a  time,  whfn  J  (low,  every  archway  and  abulinent,  frownmg 
there  was  plenty  of  fightiug,  and  a  very  fair ;  threat  and  defiance  upon  the  daring  visitor  who 
ehance  of  speedy  promotion  for  a  good  soldier.      •  approaches  the  great  lious^by  this,  the  formidable 

He  gave.thc  young  cadet  his  blessing,  reminded  \  chief  entrnnco. 
him  of  the  limit  of  such  supplies  as  he  was  to  ex- 1     The   mansion   looks    westward;   but   there   ii 
pect  froDD  home,  bade  bim  keep  clear  of  the  ^  another  approach,  a  low  ai;phwa7  0D  the  loutlierD 


CHAPTER  V. 


M.\RCH.MON'T    TOWEBB. 


16 


lOHxN   MARCHMONT'3  LEGACY. 


side,  which  Jfiads  into  a  quadrangle,  where  there  '- 
is  a  quaint  little  door  under  a  stone  portico,  ivy- 
covert-d  like  the  rest — a  comfortable  little  door  of 
massive  bat,  studded  with  knobs  of  rusty  iron — a 
door  generally  affected  bj  visitors  familiar  with 
the  house. 

This  is  Marchmont  Towers — a  grand  and  stately 
mansion,  which  had  been  a  monastery  in  the  days 
when  England  and  the  Pope  were  friends  and  al- 
lies; and    which  had  been  bestowed  upon  Hugh  I 
Marchiiiont,  gentleman,  by  his  Sovereign  Lord  \ 
and  most  Christian  Majesty  the  King,  Henry  VIH, 
of  blessed  memory,  and  by  that  gentleman  com-  \ 
moner  extended    and   improved  at  considerable 
outlay.     This  is  Marchmont  Towers — a  splendid  , 
and    a   princely   habitation,   truly;    but  perhaps 
scarcely  the  kind  of  dwelling  one  would  choose,  ; 
out  of  every  other  resting-place  upon  earth,  for  ; 
the  holy  resting-place  we  call  home.     The  great  \ 
mansion   is  a  little  too  dismal  in  its  lonely  gran- ; 
deur;  it  lacks  shelter  when  the  dreary  winds  come 
swf  eping  across  the  grassy  flats  in  the  bleak  winter  ' 
weather;  it  lacks  shade  when  thS  western  sun  ; 
blazes  on  every  window-pane  in  the  stifling  sum- 
mer  evening.     It  is  at  all  times  rather  too  stony  '• 
in  its  aspect,  and  is  apt  to  remind  one,  almost ; 
painfully,  of  every*  v/eird    and   sorrowful  story  ! 
treasured  in  the  storehouse  of  memory.     Ancient } 
tales  of  enchantment,  (lark  German  legends,  wild  J 
Scottish  fancies, grim  fragments  of  half-forgotten  j 
demonology,  strange  stones  of  murder,  violence,  ; 
mystery,  and  wrong,  vaguely  intermingle  in  the  , 
stranger's  mind,  as  he  looks,  for  the  first^time;  at  , 
Marchmont  Towers.  ^  ; 

But  of  course  these  feelings  wear  off  in  time,  i 
So  invincible  is  the  power  of  custom,  that  we  | 
misht  make  ourselves  comfortable  in  the  Cas.lle  • 
of  Otrarito  after  a  reasonable  sojourn   within  its  ; 
mysterious  walls.     Familiarity  would  breed  con- 1 
tempt  for  the  giant  helmet,  and  all  the  other  grim 
apparitions  of  the  haunted  .dwelling.     The   com- j 
monplace  and    ignoble*wants   of  everyday  life! 
must   surely   bring  disenchantment  with   them.t 
The  ghost  and  the  butcher's  boy  cannot  well  exist  J 
contemporaneously;  and  the  avenging  shade  can  ; 
scarcely  continue  tolurk  beneath  the  portal  which  ; 
is  visited    by   the  matutinal    milkman.     Indeed,  • 
this  is  doubtless  the  reason,  that  the  most  restless  ^ 
and  impatient  spirit,  bent  on   early  vengeance 
and  immediate  retribution,  will  yet  wait  until  the  ; 
sha#es   of  night  have  fallen   before  he  reveals  , 
himself,  rather  than  run  the  risk  of  an  ignomin- ! 
ious  encounter  with  the  postman  or  the  parlor-: 
maid.      Be   it   how   it   might,   the   phantoms  of? 
Marchmont  Towers  were  not  intrusive.     They 
may  have  perambulated  the  long  tapestried  cor-  '\ 
ridors,  the  tenantless  chambers,  the  broad  black 
staircase  of  .shining  oak;  all  the  dead  and  gone 
bieauties,  and  soldiers,  and  lawyers,  and  parsons, 
and  simple   country  sipiires  of  the    Marchmont ' 
race,,  may   have   descended  from  their   picture- 
frames*  to   hold   a   witches'  sabbath  in   the   old 
house;'  hut   as  the  Lincolnshire   servants    were 
hearty  eaters  and  hcMvy  sleepers,  the  ghosts  had 
it  allto  themselves.     I   believe  there  was  one 
dismal  story  attached  to  the  house — the  story  of 
a  Marchmontiif  the  time  of  Charles  1.,  who  had 
murdered   his  coachman    in   a   fit  of   insensate 
rage:   and  it   was  even  asserted,   upon   the  au- 
thority of  an  old  housekeeper, that  John  AFarch- 
niout's  grandmother,  when  a  young  woman  and 
lately  come  as  a  bride  to  the  Towers,  had  be- 
held  the    murdered   coachmaa    stalk  into  her 
chamber,  ghastly  and  blood-bedabbled,  io  the  dim 


summer  twilight.  But  as  this  story  was  not  par- 
ticularly romantic,  and  possessed  none  of  the 
elements  likely  t9  insure  popularity,  such  as  love, 
jealousy,  revenge,  mystery,  youth,  and  beauty, 
it  had  never  been  very  widely  disseminated. 

I  should  think  that  the  new  owner  of  March- 
mont Towers — new  within  the  last  six  months — 
was  about  the  last  person  jn  Christendom  to  be 
hypercritical,  or  to  raise  fanciful  objections  to 
his  dwelling;  for  inasmuch  as  he  had  come 
straight  from  a  wretched  transpontine  lodging  to  . 
this  splendid  Lincolnshire  mansion,  and  had  at 
the  same  time  exchanged  a  stipend  of  thirty  shil- 
lings a  week  for  an  income  of  eleven  thousand  a 
year,  derivable  from  lands  that  spread  far  away 
over  fenny  flats  and  low-lying  farms,  to  the  soli- 
tary sea-shore,  he  had  ample  reason  to  be  grate- 
ful to  Providence,  and  well  pleased  with  his  new 
abode. 

Yes;  Philip  Marchmont,  the  childless  widower, 
had  died  six  months  before,  at  the  close  of  the 
year  '4.3,  of  a  broken  heart,  his  old  servants  said 
— broken  by  the  loss  of  his  mily  and  idolized  son; 
after  which  loss  he  had  never  been  known  to 
smile.  He  was  one  of  those  undemonstrative 
men,  who  can  take  a  great  sorrow  quietly,  and 
only — die  of  it.  Philip  Marchmont  lay  in  a  vel- 
vet-covered cofl'm,  above  his  son's,  in  a  stone  re- 
cess set  apart  for  them  in  the  Marchmont  vault 
beneath  Ivemberling  Church,  three  miles  from 
the  Towers;  and  Jolm  reigned  in  his  stead.  John 
iWarthmont,  the  supernumerary,  the  patient,  con- 
scientious copying  and  outdoor  clerk  of  Lincoln's 
Inn,  was  now  sole  owner  of  the  Lincolnshire  es- 
tate, Side  master  of  a  household  of  well-trained 
old  servants,  sole  proprietor  of  a  very  decent 
country  gentleman's  stud,  and  cff  chariots,  ba- 
rouches, chaises,  phaetons,  and  other  vehicles — 
a  little  old-fashioned  and  out  of  date,  it  may  be, 
but  very  comfortable  to  a  man  for  whom  an  om- 
nibus ride  had  long«been  a  treat  and  a  I'arity. — 
Nothing  had  been  touched  or  disturbed  since 
Philip  Marchmont 's  death.  The  rooms  he  had 
used  were  still  the  occupied  apartments  ;  the 
CTiambers  he  had  chosen  to  shut  up  were  still  kept 
with  lockfed  doors;  the  servants  who  had  served 
him  waited  upon  his  successor,  whom  they  de- 
clared to  be  a  quiet,  easy  gentleman,  far  too  wise 
tointerfere  with  old  servants,  every  one  of  whom 
knew  the  ways  of  the  house  a  great  deal  better 
than  he  did,  though  he  was  the  master  of  it.,  , 

There  was  therefore  no  shadow  of  change  in 
th,e  stately  mansion.  The  dinner-bell  still  rang  at 
the  same  hour;  the  same  trades-people  left  the 
same  species  of  wares  at  the  low  oaken  door;  the 
old  housekeeper,  angSnging  her  simple  menu. 
planned  her  narrow  round  of  soups  and  roasts, 
sweets  and  made  dishes,  exactly  as  she  had  been 
wont  to  do,  and  had  no  new  tastes  to  consult.  A 
gray-haired  bachelor,  who  had  been  own  man  j^o 
Philip,  was  now  own  man  to  Jolin.  The  carriage 
which  had  conveyed  the  late  lord  every  Sunday 
to  morning  and.afternoon  service  at  Kemberling 
conveyed  the  new  lord,  who  sat  in  the  same  seat 
that  his  predecessor  had  occupied  in  the  great 
family-pew,  and  read  his  prayers  out  of  the  same 
book— a  noble,  crimson  morocco-covered  volume, 
in  which  George,  our  most  gracious  King  and 
Governor,  and  all  manner  of  dead  and  gone  prhi- 
ces  and  princesses  were  prayed  for. 

The  presence  of  Mary  Marchmont  made  the 
only  ^change  in  the  old  house;  and  even  that 
change  was  a  very  trifling  one.  Mary  and  her 
father  were  as  closely  united  at  Marchmont  Tow- 


JOHN  MARCHMONT'S  LEGACY. 


17 


ers  as  they  had  been  In  Oakley  Street.  Tlie  little 
girl  cl^ng  to  her  father  as  tenderly  as  ever — more 
tenderly  than  ever,  perhaps;  for  she  kncvr  some- 
thing of  that jyhich  the  physicians  had  said,  and 
she  knew  thawohn  Marchmont.'s  lease  of  life  was 
not  a  long  one.  Perhaps  it  would  be  better  to 
say  that  he  had  no  lease  at  all.  His  soul  was  a 
tenant  on  sufferance  in  its  frail  earthly  habitation, 
receiving  a  respite  now  and  again,  when  the 
flicker  of  the  lamp  was  very  low,  every  chance 
breath  of  wind  threatening  to  extinguish  it  for- 
ever. It  was  only  those  who  knew  .lolin  March- 
niont  very  intimately  who  were  fully  acquainted 
with  the  extent  of  his  danger.  He  no  longer  bore 
any  of  those  fatal  outward  signs  of  consumption, 
which  fatigue  and  deprivation  had  once  made 
painfully  conspicuous.  The  hectic  flush  and  the 
unnatural  brightness  of  the  eyes  had  subsided: 
indeed,  John  seemed  much  stronger  and  beartiei 
than  of  old;  and  it  is  only  great  medical  prac- 
titioners who  can  tell  to  a  nicety  what  is  gohig 
on  inside,  a  man,  when  he  presents  a  very  fair  ex- 
terior to  the  unprofessional  eye.  But  John  was 
decidedly  better  than  he  had  been.  He  might  live 
three  years,  five,  seven,  possibly  even  ten  years; 
but  he  must  live  the  life  of  a  man  who  holds  him- 
self perpetually  upon  his  defence  against  death; 
and  he  must  recognize  in  every  bleak  current  of 
wind,  in  every  chilling  damp,  or  perilous  heat,  or 
over-exertion,  or  ill-chosen  morsel  of  food,  or 
hasty  emotion,  or  sudden  passion,  an  iusidrous  at- 
tack upon  the  part  of  his  dismal  enemy. 

Mary  Marchmont  knew  all  this<— or  divined  it, 
perhaps,  rather  than  knew  it,  with  the  child-wo- 
man's subtle  power  of  divination,  which  is  even 
stronger  than  the  actual  woman's;  for  her  father 
had  done  his  best  tokcep  all  sorr.owful  knowledge 
from  her.  She  knew  that  he  was  in  danger;  and 
she  loved  him  all  the  more  dearly  as  the  one  pre- 
cious thing  which  was  in  constant  peril  of  being 
snatched  away.  The  child's  love  for  her  fathei 
has  not  grown  any  less  morbid  in  its  intensity  since 
Edward  Arundel's  departure  for  India;  nor  has 
Mary  become  more  childlike  since  her  coming  to 
Marchmont  Towers,  and  her  abandonment  of  all 
those  sordid  cares,  those  pitiful  every  day  duties, 
which  had  made  her  Momanly.  N 

It  may  be  that  the  last  lingering  glamour  of 
childhood  had  forever  faded  away  with  the  reali- 
zatign  "of  the  day-dream  which  she  had  carried 
about  with  her  so  often  in  the  dingy  transpontine 
thoroughfares  around  Oakley  Street.  Marchmont 
Towers,  that  fairy  palace,  whose  lighted  windows 
had  shone  upon  her  far  away  across  a  cruel  forest 
of  poverty  and  trouble,  like  the  enchanted  castle 
> which  appears  to  the  lost  wAtiderer  of  the  child's 
story,  was  now  the  home  of  the  father  she  loved., 
The  grim  encliantcr,  Death,  the  only  magician  of 
our  modern  histories,  had  waved  his  skeleton 
hand,  more  powerful  than  the  star-gemmed  wand 
of  any  fairy  eodinolhcr,  and  the  obstacles  which 
had  stood  betwcin  John  MMtthmont  and  his  in- 
heritance had  one  by  one  beln  swept  awaj'. 

But  was  Marchmimt  Towers  ([uite  as  beautiful 
as  that  fairy  palace  of  Mary's  day-dream  ?  >fo, 
not  quite;  not  quite.  The  rooms  were  handsome 
— handsomer  and  larger,  even,  than  the  room^  ^he 
had  dreamed  of;  but  perhaps  none  the  better  for 
that.  They  were  grand  and  gloomy  and  magnifi- 
cent; but  tlic.y  were,  not  the  sunlit  chambers 
w/)ich  her  fancy  had  built  up,  and  decorated  with 
.^uch  «hred9  and  pafchesof  splendor  as  her  narrow 
experience  enabled  her  to  devise.  I'erhaps  it 
was  rather  a  disappointmeot  to  Miss  Marchmont 
3 


to  discover  that  the  mansioQ  was  completely  fur- 
nished, and  that  there  was  no  room  for  any  of 
those  splendors  which  she  had  so  often  contem- 
plated in  the  New  Cut.  The  parrot  at  the  green- 
grocer's was  a  vulgar  bird,  and  not  by  any  means 
admirable  in  Lincolnshire.  The  carrying  away 
and  providing  for  her  favorite  tradespeople  was 
not  practicable;  and  John  Marchmont  had  de- 
murred to  her  proposal  of  adoptiag  the  butcher's 
daughter. 

There  is  always  something  to  be  given  up  even 
when  our  brightest  visions  are  realized;  there  is 
always  some  one  figure,  a  low  one,  perhaps, 
missing  in  the  fullest  sum  of  earthly  happiness. 
I  dare  say,  if  AInaschar  had  married  the  Vizier's 
daughter,  he  would  have  found  her  a  shrew,  and 
would  have  looked  back  yearningly  to  the  humble 
days  in  which  he  had  been  an  itinerant  vendor  of 
crockery-ware. 

If,  therefore,  Mary  Marchmont  found  her  sun- 
lit fancies  not  quite  realized  by  the  great  stony 
mansion  that  frowned  .u^on  the  fenny  country- 
side, the  wide  grassy  plat,  the  black  pool,  with 
its  dismal  shelter  of  weird  pollard-willows,  whose 
ugly  shadows,  distorted  on  the  ibsoni  of  the  quiet 
water,  looked  like  the  shadows  of  hump-backed^ 
men — if  these  things  did  not  compose  as  beautiful 
a  picture  as  that  which  the  little  girl  had  carried 
so  long  in  her  mind,  she  had  no  more  reason  to  be 
sorry  than  the  rest  of  us,  and  had  been  no  more 
foolish  than  other  dreamers.  Well,  the  dream 
was  over,  and  she  v.as  quite  a  woman  now;  a 
woman,  very  grateful  to  Providence  when  she  re- 
membered tiiat  her  father  had  no  longer  need  to 
toil  for  his  daily  bread,  and  that  he  was  luxuri- 
ously lodged,  and  could  have  the  first  physicians 
in  the  land  at  his  beck  and  call. 

'Oh,  papa,  it  is  so"  nice  to  be  rich  !'  the  young  , 
lady  would  exclaim  now  and  then,  in  a  flectinj 
transport  of  enthusiasm.      'How  good  we  ought 
to  be  to  the  poor  people,  when  we  remember  how 
poor  we  once  were  !'      * 

And  the  little  girl  did  not  forget  to  be  good  to 
the  poor  about  Kembcrling  and  Marchmont  Tow- 
ers. There  were  plenty  of  poor,  of  course;  free 
and  eas-  pensionefs,  who  came  to  the  Towers  for 
brandy,  and  wine,  and  milk,  and  woolen  stuff's, 
and  grocery,  precisely  as  they  would  have  gone  to  • 
a  shop,  except  that  there  was  to  be  no  bill.  The 
housekeeper  doled  out  her  bounties  with  many 
.*hort  homilies  upon  the  depravity  and  ingratitude 
of  the  recipients,  and  gave  tracts  of  an  awful  and 
denunciatory  nature  lo  the  pitiful  petitioners. — 
Tracts  interrogatory,  and  tracts  fiercely  impera- 
tive; tracts  that  asked.  Where  arc  yott going  J  Why 
arc  you  wicked  9  Will  i/ok  repent  ?  Ifliat  uill  become 
nf  you  !  and  other  tracts,  which  cried.  Stop,  and 
Ihink  !  Pause,  u-hilc  there  islivt^c  !  Sinner,  consider  .' 
Eril-doer,  beware  !  Perhaps  <t  may  not  be  the  wisest 
possible  plan  to  begin  the  work  of  reformation  by 
frightening,  'hrcatening,  and  otherwise  disheart- 
ening the  wretched  sinner  to  be  reformed.  There 
is  a  certain  sermon  in  the  New  Testament  con- 
taining »cred  a>id  comforting  words,  which  were 
Kpoken  upon  a  mountain  near  at  hand  to  Jerusa- 
lem, and  spoken  to  an  auditory  among  which 
there  must  have  been  many  sinful  creatures;  but 
there  is  more  of  blessing  than  cursing  in  that  sub- 
lime discourse,  and  it  might  be  rather  a  "nder 
father  pleading  gently  with  his  wayward  children 
than  an  ollended  Deity  dealing  out  denunciation 
upon  a  stubborn  and  refractory  race.  But  the 
authors  of  the  tracts  may  have  never  read  thig 
sermon,  perhaps,  and  they  may  take  their  ideal 


18  JOHN  MARCHMONT'S  LEGACY. 

• 
of  composition  from  that  comforting  service  which  I  implored  her  father  to  write  to  Edward  Amndcl, 
we  read   on   Ash  Wednesday,  cowering  in  fear,  |  recalling  him  to  England. 

and  trembling  in  our  pews,  and  calling  downj;  'God  knows  how  glad  I  should  be  to  have  the 
curses  upon  ourselves  and  our  neighbors.  Beit  as  iljboy  here,  Polly,'  John  said,  as  he  drew  his  little 
might,  the  tracts  were  not  popular  among  the  pen-  ■'  girl  closer  to  his  breast^she  sat  on  his  knee  still, 
sioners  of  Marchmont  Towers.  They  infinitely  ^  though  she  was  thirteen  years  of  age— 'but  Ed- 
preferred  to  hear  Mary  read  a  chapter  in  the  New  'f  ward  has  a  career  before  him,  my  dear,  and  could 
Testament,  or  some  pretty  patriarchal  story  of  i' not  give  it  up  for  an  inglorious  life  in  this  ram- 
primitive  obedience  and  faith.  The  little  girl  i  bling  old  house.  It  isn't  as  if  I  could  hold  out  any 
would  discourse  upon  the  Scripture  histories  in  <  inducement  to  him,  you  know,  Polly.  I  can't; 
her  simple,  old-fashioned  manner;  and  many  a  <  for  1  mustn't  leave  any  money  away  from  my 
stout  Lincolnshire  farm  laborer  was  content  to  sit  1;  little  girl.' 

over  his  hearth,  with  a  pipe  of  shag-tobacco  and  /  t^ut  he  might  have  half  my  money,  papa,  or 
a  mug  of  fettled  beer,   while   Miss  Marchmont  >  all  of  it,' Mary  added,  piteously.     'What  could 

read  and  expounded  the  history  of  Abraham  and  ^  j  do  with  monei)-  if ' 

Isaac,  or  Joseph  and  his  brethren.  /     g,^^  ^.^^,^  ^^^i^^  ^^^  sentence;  she  never  could 

'It's  joost  loike  a  story-book  to  hear  her,'  the   complete  any  such  sentence  as  this;  but  her  father 
man  would  say  to  his  wife;  'and  yet  she  brings  it;; knew  what  she  meant. 

all  hoanae  too,  loike  If  she  reads  about  Abra-  f,  g^  ^j^  ^^^^,^3  ^^^  ^^^^^  ^.^^^  ^  ^^^^^  j^^_  ■ 
ham,  she'll  say,  maybe.   "That  s  joost  how  you  ^  ^^,^^.^^^  5^1^^  Marchmont  had  read 

f.^TfJ„^^,L°i^.'Z.f°".J:„'?f..f.„^°lfe^^  Tinges  that  ho  could 

of  somethmg  greatly  to  his  advantage  by 
ing  to  a  certain  solicitor,  whose  ofiices  were 
loor  but  one  to  those  of  Messrs.  Paulette, 
„,.    .,       u  »    1    )ii  ui        v,^- ifti„  K„„.,t  I  o^  ^  Paulette,  and  Mathewson's.     His  heart  began  to 

Iha  's  wha  she'll  say,  bless  her  little  heart !  so  ^^^^  ^^^.^  violently  when  he'read  that  advertise-' 
gen  le  and  tender  lo.ke.  The  worst  o  chaps  ^^^^^  .^\^^  supplement  which  it  was  one  of  his 
couldn  t  but  hsten  to  her.  ,  ^^^j^g  ^^  ^i^  before  the  fire  in  the  clerks'  office; 

Mary  Marchmont's  morbidly  sensitive  nature  ;;  but  he  .showed  no  other  sign  of  emotion.  He 
adapted  her  to  all  charitable  offices.  No  chance  ;;  waited  until  he  took  the  papers  to  his  employer; 
word.in  her  simple  talk  ever  inflicted  a  wound  ;;  and  as  he  laid  them  at  Mr.  Mathewson's  elbow, 
upon  the  listener.  She  had  a  subtle  and  intuitivev  murmured  a  res'pectful  request  to  be  allowed  to 
comprehension  of  other  people's  feelings,  derived  ;;  go  out  for  half  an  hour  upon  his  own  business, 
from  the  exti;cme  susceptibility  of  her  own.  She^.  .^^^^  gracious  me,  Marchmont!'  crifed  the 
had  never  been  vulgarized  by  the  association?  of  j  j  ^j^^t  ^^„         ^^^^  ^^       ^^^  ^^^  ^^  ^^.^ 

poverty;  for  her  self-contained  nature  took  rio.^^^^.^^^^^^^^^^.     i    You've  only  just  come;"  and 
color  from  the  things  that  surrounded  her,  and  she    j,^^^^,^  ^^^^  agreement  between  Higgs  and  Sandy- 
was  only  at  Marchmont  Towers  that  which  she  ;  ^^^^  ^^^^  ^^  %     .^^  before-' 
had  been  from  the  age  of  six-a  litlle  lady,  grave        .y^     ^  know.  Sir;  I'll  be  back  in  time  to  at- 
and  gentle,  dignified,  discreet,  and  wise.  ]  ^^^^  ^^  jt;   but  I-l  think  I've  come  into  a  for- 

There  was  one  brightfigure  missingoutof  the pic-^;  tune,  Sir;  and  I  should  like  to  go  and  see  about 
ture  which  she  had  been  wont  of  late  years  to  make  j  it.' 

of  the  Lincolnshire  mansion,  and  that  was  the  fig-/  The  solicitor  turned  in  his  revolving  library- 
ure  of  the  yellow-haired  boy  w{>o  had  breakfasted  ^  chair  and  looked  aghast  at  his  clerk.  Had  this 
upon  haddocks  and  hotrolls'ln  Oakley  Street.  She  ^  Marchmont— always  rather  unnaturally  reserved 
had  imagined  Edward  Arundel  an  inhabitant  of ;  and  eccentric— gone  suddenly  mad?  No;  the 
that  fair  Utopia.  He  would  live  with  them;  or,  if/ copying-clerk  stood  by  his  side,  grave,  self-pos- 
he  could  not  live  with  tbem,  he  would  be  with  them  ;;sessed  as  ever,  with  his  forefinger  upon  the  ad-' 
as  a  visitor — often — almost  always.      He  would  O^ertisement. 

leave  off  being  a  soldier,  for,  of  course,  her  papa^     'Marchmont— John — call— Messrs.  Tindal  and 
could  give  him  more  money  than  he  could  get  by  ^  Trollam—'  gasped  Mr.  Mathewson.     'Do   you 
being  a  soldier — (you  see  that  Mary's  experience  <;  mean  to  tell  me  it's  you  ?' 
of  poverty  had  ta.ught  her  to  take  a  mercantile  ^      'Yes,  Sir.' 

and  sordid  view  of  military  life)— and  he  would  ^  'Egad,  I'll  go  with  you!'  cried  the  solicitor,^ 
come  to  Marchmont  Towers,  and  ride,  and  drive.  ^  hooking  his  arm  through  that  of  his  clerk,  snatch- 
and  play  tennis— what  was  tennis  ?  she  wondered  ■;  ing  his  hat  from  an  adjacent  stand,  and  dashing 
— and  read  three-volume  novels  all  day  long.  Hut  J;  through  the  outer  office,  down  the  great  stair- 
that  part  of  the  dream  was  at  least  broken. —  ^case,  and  into  the  next  door  but  one,  before  John 
Marchmont  Towers  was  Mary's  home,  but  the  5  Marchmont  knew  where  he  was. 
young  soldier  v/as  far  away;  in  the  Pass  of  Bolan  \  John  had  not  decked  his  employer.  March- 
perhaps— Mary  had  a  picture  of  that  cruel  rocky  5  mont  Towers  was  Im,  with  all  its  appurtenances, 
pass  almost  always  in -her  mind— or  cutting  his  ^  Messrs.  Paulette,  Paulette,  and  Mathewson  took 
way  through  a  black  jungle,  with  the  yellow  eyeshiim  in  hand,  much  to  the  chagrin  of  Messrs.  Tin- 
of  hungry  tigers  glaring  out  at  him  through  the  \  dal  and  Trollam,  and  proved"'hiJ;  identity  in  less 
loathsome  tropical  foliage;  or  dying  of  thirst  and  i  than  a  week.  On  a  shelf  above  the  high  wooden 
fever-under  a  scorching  sun,  with  no  better  pillow  |  desk  at  which  John  had  sat,  copying  law-papers, 
than  The  rveck  of  a  dead  camel,  with  no  more  ten-|  vv~ith  a  weary  hand  and  an  aching  spine,  appeared 
der  watcher  than  the  impatient  vulture  flapping 'two  bran-new  deed-boxes,  inscribed,  in  white 
her  wings  above  his  head,  and  waiting  till  he 'too  <  letters,  with  the  name  and  address  of  Johv 
should  be  carrion.  What  was  the  good  of  wealth,  j  Marchmont,  Esq.,  Marchmont  Towers.  The 
if  it  could  not  bring  this  young  soldier  home  to  a  \  copying-clerk's  sudden  accession  to  fortune  was 
safe  shelter  in  his  native  land  .>  John  Marchmont  I  the  talk  of  all  the  employes  in  'the  Fields. '  March- 
smiled  when  his  daughter  asked  this  fjUestion,  and  i  mont  Towers  was  exaggerated  into  all  Lincoln- 


JOHN   MARCHMONT'S  LEGACY.  ^  l-j 

siiitc  and  a  tidy  slice  of  Yorkshire.  Eleven  thou- 1  woman,  who  made  a  moi'ning  call  every  Monday 
sand  a  year  was  expanded  into  an  annual  million,  i  with  John  Marchmont's  shabby  shirts.  The  shirts 
Every  body  expected  largesse  from  the  legatee. —  were  not  shabby  now;  and  it  was  no  longer  Mary's 
How  fond  people  had  been  of  the  quiet  clerk,  and  i  duty  to  watch  them  day  by  day,  and  manipulate 
how  magnanimously  they  had  concealed  their  sen- 1  them  tenderly  when  the  linen  grew  frayed  at  the 
timents  during  his  poverty,  lest  they  should  wound  sharp  edges  of  the  folds,  or  the  button-holes  gavo 
him,  as  they  urged,  'which'  they  knew  he  was  signs  of  weakness.  Corson,  Mr.  Marchmont's 
sensitive;  and  how  expansively  they  now  dilated  own  ^an,  had  care  of  the  shirts  now;  and  John 
on  their  long-suppressed  emotioqs  !  .  Of  course,  wore  diamond  studs  and  a  black  satin  waistcoat 
under  these  circumstances,  it  is  hardly  likely  that !  when  he  gave  a  dinner-party.  They  were  not 
every  body  could  be  satisfied;  so  it  is  a  small  thing  ■  very  lively,  those  Lincolnshire  dinner-parties; 
to  say  that  the  dinner  which  John  gave— by  his  •  though  the  dessert  was  a  sight  to  look  upon,  in 
late  employers'  suggestion  (he  was  about  the  last  <  Mary's  eyes.  The  long,  shining  table,  the  red 
man  to  think  of  giving  a  dinner)— at  the  'Albion  :  and  gold.and  purple  and  green  Indian  china,  the 
Tavern,'  to  the  legal  staff  of  Messrs.  Paulctte, !  lIuflTy  woolen  d'ny leys,  the sparklmg cut-glass,  the 
"Pauletter,  and  MathcTvson,  and  such  actiuaintancc  sticky  preserved  ginger  and  guava-jclly,  and  dried 
of  the  legal  profession  as  they  should  choose  to  orange  rings  and*  chips,  and  all  llic  stereotyped 
invite,  was  a  failure;  and  that  gcntlei^jen  who  sweetmeats,  were  very  grjtnd  and  beautiful,  no 
were  pretty  well  used  to  dine  upon  liver  and  ba-  doubt;  but  Mary  had  seen  livelier  desserts  in  Oak- 
con,  or  beef-steak  and  onions,  or  tlic  joint,  vegc-  ley  Street,  though  there  had  been  nothing  bolter 
tables,  bread,  cheese,  and  celery  for  a  shilling, .  than  a  brown-paper  bag  of  oranges  from  the 
turned  up  their  noses  at  the  turbot,  murmured  at  VVestmiifstcr  Road,  and  a  bottle  of  two-and-two- 
llic  paucity  of  green  fat  in  the  soup,  made  light  penny  Marsala  from  a  Mecnsed  victualcr's  in  the 
of  red  mullet  and  ortolans,  objected  to  the  flavor  .Borough,  to  promote  conviviality, 
of  the  trulHes,  and  were  contemptuous  about  the  • 

wines. 

John   knew  nothing  of  this.      He  had  lived  a  ^''* 

separate  and  secluded  existence;   and  his  only 

thought  now  was  of  getting  away  to  Marchmont  CHAPTER  VJ. 

Towers,  which  had  been  familiar  to  him  in  his  .^m:  vocxg   soldier's  retirn. 

boyhood,  when  he  had  been  wont  to  go  ther«  on 

occasional  visits  to  his  grandfather.  He  wanted  Tut;  rain  beats  down  upon  the  battlemented 
to  get  away  from  the  turmoil  and  confusion  of  the  roof  of  Marchmont  Towers  this  July  day  as  if  it 
big,  heartless  city,  in  which  he  had  endured  so  bad  a  mind  to  Hood  the  old  mansion.  The  flat 
much;  he  wanted  to  carry  away  his  little  girl  to.  waste  of  grass,  and  the  lonely  clumps  of  trees, 
a  qu^et  country  home,  and  live  and  die  there  in  arc  almost  blotted  out  by  the  falling  rain.  The 
peace.  He  liberally  rewarded  all  the  good  people  low  gray  sky  shuts  out  the  distance.  This  part  of 
about  Oakley  Street  who  had  been  liind  to  littLe  '  Lincolnshire— fenny,  misty,  and  flat  always— 
Mary;  and  there  was  weeping  and  regret  in  the  seems  flatter  and  mistier  than  usual  Jq-day.  The 
regions  ofthc  Ladies' Wardrobe  when  Mr.  March-  rain  beats  hopelessly  upon  the  l,eaves4n  ttie  wood 
mont  and  his  daughter  went  away  one  bitter  win-  behind  Marchmont  Towers,  and  flashes,  into 
ler's  morning,  in  a  cab  which  was  to, carry  them  great  pools  beneath  the  trees,  until*  tlie  ground  is 
to  the  hostelry  whence  the  coach  started  for  Lin-  ;  almost  hidden  by  the  falling  water,  and  the  trees 
coin.  .  seem  to  be  growing  out  of  a  black  lake.   The  land 

It  is.  strange  to  think  ho\t  far  those  Oakley  is  lower  behind  Marchmont  Towers,  and  slopes 
Street  days  of  privation  and  endurance  seem  to  down  gradually  to  the  bank  of  a  dismal  liver, 
have  receded  in  the  memories  of  both  father  and  ,  which  straggles  througli  the  Marchmont  property 
daughter.  The  impalpable  past  fades  away,  and  :  at  a  snail's  pace,  to  gain  an  impetus  farther  on, 
it  is  difficult  for  John  and  his  little  girl  to  believe  ,  until  it  hurries  into  the  sea  somewhere  northward 
that  they  were  once  so  poor  and  desolate.  It  is  of  Grimsby.  The  wood  is  not  held  in  any  great 
Oakley  Street  now  that  is-  visionary  and  unreal. :  favor  by  the  household  at  the  Towers;  and  it  has 
The  stately  county  families  bear  down  upon  '  been  a  pet  project  of  several  Marchmonts  to  level 
Marchmont  Towers  in  great  lumbering  chariots,  [and  drain  it,  but  a  project  not  very  easily  to  be 
with  brazen  crests  upon  the  hammer-cloths,  and  carried  out.  Marchmont  Towers  is  said  to  be  un- 
sulky  coachmen  in  Crown-George  wigs.  The  healthy,  as  a  dwelling-house,  by  reason  of  this 
county  mammas  patronize  and  caress  Miss  March- ;  wood,  from  which  miasmas  rise  in  certain  stales 
mont — what  a  match  she  will  be  for  one*  of  the  of  the  weather;  and  it  is  on  this  account  that  the 
county  sons  by-and-by  !— the  county  daughters  dis-  back  of  the  house— the  eastern  front,  at  least,  as 
course  with  Mary  about  her  poor,  and  her  fancy-  it  is  called,  looking  to  the  wood— is  very  littlo 
work,  and  lier  pianor      She  is  getting  on  slowly    used. 

enougli  witTi  her  piano,  poor  little  girl,  under  the  Mary  Marchmont  sits  at  a  window  in  the  west- 
tuition  of  the  organist  of  Siframpington,  who  gives  ,  ern  drawing-room, 'watching  the  ceaseless  falling 
lessons^o  that  part  of  the  county.  And  there  are  'of  the  rain  upon  this  dreary  summer  afternoon, 
solemn  dinners  now  and  then  at  Marchmont  Tow- ;  She  is  little  changed  since  the  day  upon  which 
ors;  dinners  at  which  Miss  Marj  appears  when  Edward  Arundel  saw  her  in  Oakley  Street.  She 
the  clotli  has  been  removed,  and  reflects  in  silent  is  taller,  of  course;  but  her  figure  is  as  slender 
wonder  upon 'the  change  that  has  nome  to  her 'and  childish  as  ever;  it  i^  only  her  face  in  which 
lather  and  herself.  Can  it  be  true  that  she  has  ;  the  earnestness  of  premature  womanhood  reveals 
ever  lived  in  Oakley  Street  ?  whither  came  no  itself,  in  a  grave  and  sweet  serenity  very  beauli- 
more  aristocratic  visitors  than  her  Aunt  Sophia, ,  ful  to  contemplate.  Her  soft  brown  cjes  have  a 
whowasthe  wife  of  a  Berkshire  farmer, and  always  :  pensive  shadow  in  their  gentle  light;  her  mouth 
brought  hogs-puddings,  and  butter,  and  home- :  is  even  more  pensive.  It  has  bcin  said  of  Jano 
made  bread,  and  other  rustic  delicacies  to  her :  Grey,  of  Mary  Stuart,  of  Mane  A utoiDctlo,  Char 
brother-ia-law,  or  Mrs.  Brigsomc,  the  washer- '  lott©  Corduy,  and  other  fated  women,  that  in  iho 


20 


JOHN  MARCHMONT'S  LEGACY. 


gayest  houi;s  of  their  youtli  they  bore  upon  some  |  years  before  in  the  two-pair  back  in  Oakley 
feature  or  in  some  expression,  the  shadow  of  the  j  Street,  was  almost. too  much  for  her  to  bear  with- 
End;  an  impalpable,  indescribable  presage  of  an  j  out  the  relief  of  tears.  But  she  controlled  her 
awful  future,  vaguely  felt  by  those  who  looked  emotion  as  bravely  as  if  she  had  been  a  woman 
upon  them.  ■  of  twenty. 

Js  it  thus  with  Mary  Marchmont?      Has  the;      4  am  so  glad  to  see  you,' she  said,  quietly;  «and 
solemn  hand  of  Destiny  set  that  siiadowy  bfand  \  papa  will  be  so  glad  too.     It  is  the  only  thing  we 
upon  the  face  of  this  child,  that  even  in  her  pros-  '^  want,  now  v/e  are  rich,  to  have  you  with  us.    We 
perity,  as  in  her  adversity,  she  should  be  so  utterly  ;  have   talked  of  you  so   often;  and  I — we— have 
different  from  all  other  children  ?    Is  she  already  \  been  so  unhappy  sometimes,  thinking  that — ' 
marked    out    for    some    womanly    martyrdom;;      'That  I  should  be  killed,  1  suppose?' 
already  set  apart  for  more  than  common  suffering?!      'Yes;  or  wounded  very,  very  badly.     The  bat- 
She  sits  alone  this  afternoon,  for  hex  father  is  •.  ties  in  India  have  been  dreadful,  have  they  not?' 
busy  with  his  agent.      Wealth  does  not  mean  im- ;      Mr.  Arundel  smiled  at  her  earnestness, 
munity  from  all  care  and  trouble;  and  Mr.  March-       'They  have  not  been  exactly  child's  play,'  he 
mont  has  plenty  of  work  to  gef  through,  in  con-  >,  said,  shaking  back  his  auburn  hair  and  smoothing 
junction  with  his   land-steward,   a  hard-headed  ;  his.  thic^i  mustache.      He  was  a  man  now,  and  a 
Yorkshireman,  who  lives  at  Kemberling,  and  in- J  very  handsome  one;  somcthingof  that  type  which 
sists  on  doing  his  duty  with  pertinacious  honesty.  1  is   known  in  this  year   of  grace  as  'swell;'  but 
The  large  brown  eyes  looked  wistfully  out  at  |  brave  and  chivalrous  withal,  and  not  afflicted  with 
the  dismal  waste  and  the  falling  rain.    There  was  {  any  impediment  in  his  speech.     '■The  men  who  • 
a  wretched  equestrian  making  his  way  along  the  |  talk  of  the  Afghans  as  a  chicken-hearted  set  of 
carriage-drive.  <  fellows  are  rather  out  of  their  reckoning.     The 

I  'Who  can  come  to  see  us  on  such  aday  ?'  Mary  !  Indians  can  fight,  Miss  Mary,  and  fight  like  the 
thought.  'It  must  be  Mr.  Gormby,  I  suppose' — \  devil; but  we  can  lick  'em.' 
the  agent's  name  was. Gormby — 'Mr.  Gormby  He  walked  over  to  the  fire-place,  where  there 
never  cares  about  the  wet;  but  then  I'  thought  he  ^  was  a  fire  burning  upon  this  chilly  wet  day;  and 
was  with  papa.  Oh,  I  hope  it  isn't  any  body ;  began  to  shake  himself  dry.  Mary,  following 
coming  to  call.'  |  him  with  her  eyes,  wondered  if  there  was  such 

But  Mary  forgot  all  about  the  struggling  eques- ;  another  soldier  in  all  her  Majesty's  dominions, 
Irian  the  next  moment.  She  had  some  morsel  of  |  and  how  soon  he  would  be  made  General-iri-chief 
fancy-work  upon. her  lap,  and  picked  it  up  and  \  of  the  Army  of  the  Indus. 

went  on  with  it,  setting  slow  stitches,  and  letting  J      'Then   you've  not  been  wounded  at  all,  Mr. 
her  thoughts  wander  far  awny  from  Marchmont  ■',  Arundel  ?'  she  said,  after  a  pause. 
Towers.     To  India,  I. am  afraid;  or  to  that  imagi- ;      'Oh  yes,  I've  been  wounded;  and  I  got  a  bullet 
nary  India  which  bhe  had  created  for  herself  out  of)  in  my  shoulder  from  an  Afghan  musket,  and  I'm 
'fi^ch  images  as  were  to  be  picked  up  in  the  'Ara- ',  home  on  sick-leave.' 

bi^h  Nights^      She  was  roused  suddenly  by  the ';      This  time  he  saw  tlie  expression  of  her  face, 
opening'of  \i  TJoo^^at  the  fart:her  end  of  the  room,  ■;  and  interpreted  her  look  of  alarm- 
and  by  the*v6icc^  of  a  servant  who  mumbled  a  j      'But  I'm  not  ill,  you  know.  Miss  Marchmont,' 
name  which  gounded  something  like  Mr.  Armen- ;  he  said,  laughing.     'Our  fellov/s  are  very  glad  of 
ger.  \  ^  a  wound  when  they   feel   home-sick.      The   8th 

She  rose,  blushing  a  little,  to  do  honor  to  one  ,  come  home  before  long,  all  of  'em;  and   I've  a  . 
of   her  father's    country    acquaintance,   as  she  ;  twelvemonth's  leav^  of  absence;  and  we're  pretty 
thought;  when  a  fair-haired  p;en,tleman  dashed  in,  >  sure  to  be  ordered  out  again  by  the  end   of  that 
very  much  excited  and  very  wet,  and  made  his  .>  time,  as  I  don't  believe   there's  much  chance  of 
W£Ly  toward  her.  '  quiet  over  there. ' 

'I  would  come.  Miss  Marchmont,'  he  said, — 'I  ;      'You  will  go  out  again  1' 
would  come,  though  the  day  was  so  v/et;  every.      Edward  Arundel  smiled  at  her  mournful  tone. 
body  vowed  1  was  mad  to  think  of.it,  and  it  vvas        'To  be  sure.  Miss  Mary;  I  have  my  captaincy 
as  much  as  my  poor  brute  of  a  horse  could  do  to  ■  to  win  you  know.     I'm  only  a  lieutenant  as  yet.' 
get  over  the  ten  miles  of  swamp  between  this  and  (      'It  was  only  a  twelvemonth's  reprieve,  after  all, 
my  uncle's  house;  but  I  would  come.      Where's  i  then,' Mary  thought.     He  would  go  again  to  suf- 
John?  •  I  want  to  see  John.     Didn't  I  always  tell  -  fer,  and  to  be  wounded,  and  to  die,  perhaps.  But 
him. he'd  come  into  the  Lincolnshire  property  ?:  then,  on  the  other  hand,  there   was    a  twelve- 
Didn't  I  always  say  so,  now?     You  should  have  ■  month's  respite,  and  her  father,  might  hi  thattime 
seen   Martin   Mostyn's   face — he's  got  a  capital ':  prevail  upon  the  young  soldier  to  stay  at  March- 
berth  in,  the  War  Office,  and  he's  such  a  §nob  ! —  j  mont  Towers.     It  was  such  inexpressible  happi- 
when  I  told  him  the  news  !     It  was  as  long  as  my  {  ness  to  see  him  once  more,  to  know  that  he  was 
arm.      But  I  must  see  John,  dear  old  fellow;  I  j  safe  and  well,  that  she  could  scarcely  do  other- 
long  to  congratulate  him.'      •  {  wise  than  see  all  things  in  a  sunny  light  just  now. 
Mary  stood  with  her  hands  clasped,  and  her'      She  ran  to  John  Marchmont's  itudy  to%ell  him 
breath  coming  quickly.    The  blush  had  quite  faded    of  the   coming  of  this   welcome  visitor;  but  she 
out,  and  left  her  unusually  pale,  but  Edward  Arun- ':,  v/ept  upon  her  father's  shoulder  before  she  could 
del  did  not  see  this.      Young  gentlemen  of  four- ;  explain  who  it  was  whose  coming  had  made  her 
and-twenty  are  not  vcry^attentive  to  every  change  i  so  glad.      Very  few  friendships  had  broken  the 
of  expression  in  little  girls  of  thirteen.  i  monotony  of  her  solitary  existence;  and  Edward 
•Oh,  is  it  you,  Mr.  Arundel  ?    Is  it  really  you  ?'    Arundel  was  the  only,  chivalrous  image  she  had 
She  spoke  in  a  low  voice,  and  it  was  almost  dif-   ever  known  out  of  her  books, 
fteuit  to  keep  the  rushing  tears  back  while  she  did  j      John  Marchmont  was  scarcely  less  pleased  than 
so.      She  had  pictured  him  so  often  in  peril,  in  j  his  child  to  see  the  man  who  had  befriended  hiiu 
famine,  in  sickness,  in  d.eath,  that  to  see  him  here,    in  his  poverty.      Never  has  more  heart-felt  weJ- 
well,  happy,  light-hearted,  cordial,  handsome,  j  come  been  given  than  that  which  greeted  Edward 
and  brave,  as  she  had  seen  him  four  and  a  half;  Arundel  at  Marchmont  Towers. 


JOHN*MARCHMONT'S  LEGACY. 


21 


,  'You  will  stay  with  us,  of  course,  my  dear  ( 
Arundel,'  Jolin  said;  'you  will  stop  for  Septem-  ! 
ber  and  the  shooting.  You  know  you  promised  \ 
you'd  make  this  j'our  shooting-box;  and  we'll  | 
build  the  tennis-court.  Heaven  knows  there's  . 
I'oom  eaougli  for  it  in  the  g^eat  quadrangle,  and  ( 
there's  a  billiard-room  overtliis, though  I'm  afraid  ! 
the  table  is  out  of  order.  But  we  can  soon  set  i 
that  right,  can't  we,  Polly?'  .      \ 

'Yes,  yes,  papa;  out  of  my  pocket-money,  if  ( 
you  like.'  .  ( 

Mary  Marchmont  said  this  in  all  good  faRh.  It  \ 
was  sometimes  difficult  for  her  to  remeaiber  that  \ 
her  father  w^  really  ricli,  and  had  no  need  of  ^ 
help  out  of  her  pocket-money.  The  slender  sav- ) 
ings  in  the  little  purse  had  often  given  him  some  \ 
luxury  tliat  he  would  not  otherwise  have  had  in  5 
the  time  gone  by.  ; 

'You  got  my  letter,  then  ?'  John  said;  'the  letter  ; 
in  which  1  told  you — '  ; 

'That  Marchmont  Towers  was  yours.  Yes,  my  j 
dear  old  boy.  That  letter  was  among  a  packet  my  < 
agent  brought  me  half  an  hour  before  1  left  Cal-  < 
cutta.  God  bless  you,  dear  old  fellow;  how  glad  ' 
^  was  to  hear  of  it!  I've  only  been  in  England  a  | 
fortnight.  I  went  straiglit  from  Southampton  to  < 
Dangerfield  to  see  my  fatiier  and  mother,  staid  i 
there  little  over  ten  days,  and  then  oHended  them  | 
all  by  running  away.  I  reached  Swampington  < 
yesterday,  slept  at  my  uncle  Hubert's,  paid  my  '( 
respects  to  my  cousin  Olivia,  who  is — well,  I've  < 
told  you  wliat  she  is — ibd  rode  over  here  this  j 
morning,  much  to  the  annoyance  of.  the  inhabi- 
tants of  the  Rectory.  <So,  you  see,  I've  been  do#' 
ing  nothing  but  oflending  people  for  your  sake, ) 
.John,  and  for  yours,  Miss  Mary.  I}y-the-by,  I've  J 
brought  you  such  a  doll !'  ) 

A  doll !     Mary's  pale  face  flushed  a  faint  crim-  \ 
son.      Did  he  think  her  such  a  child,  then,  this  ) 
soldier;  did  he  think  her  .only  a  silly  child,  with  ,' 
no  thought  above  a  doll,  when  she  would  iiave  j 
gone  out  to  India,  and  braved  every  peril  of  that 
cruel  country,  to  be  his  nurse  and  comfort  in  fever 
and  sickness,  like  the  brave  Sisters  of  Mercy  she 
hud  read  of  in  some  of  her  novels  ?  * 

I'dward  Arundel  saw  that  faint  crimson  glow 
lighting  up  in  her  face. 

'I  beg  your  pardon,  Miss  Marchmont,'  he  said. 
'I  was  only  joking:  of'coursc  you  are  a  young  lady 
now,  almost  grown  up,  you  know.  Can  you  play 
chess  r' 

'No,  Mr.  Arundel.' 

'1  am  sorry  for  that;  for  I  have  brought  you  a 
set  of  chessmen  that  once  belonged  to  Uost  Mo- 
hammed Khan.  But  I'll  leach  you  the  game  if 
you  like .-' 

'Oh  yes,  Mr.  Arundel:  I  should  like  it  very, 
very  much.' 

The  young  soldier  could  not  help  being  amused 
by  the  little  girl's  earnestness.  bhe  was  about 
the  same  age  as  his  sister. Lctitia:  but  oh,  how 
widely  difl'erent  to  that  bouncing  and  rather  way- 
ward young  lady,  who  tore  the  pillow-lace  iijion 
iier  muslin  frocks,  rumpled  her  long  ringlets, 
rasped  the  skin  olT  the  sliarp  points  of  her  elbows 
by  repeated  falls  upon  the  gravel-paths  at  Dan- 
gerfield, and  tormented  a  long-sufiering  Swiss  at- 
tendant, half-lady's-maid,  half-governess,  from 
morning  till  night!  No  fold  was  awry  in  Mary 
Marchmont's  simple  black  silk  froek;  no  plait 
disarranged  in  the  neat  cambric  tucker  that  en- 
circled the  slender  white  throat.  Intellect  here 
reigned  supreme.  Instead  of  the  animal  spirits 
of  a  thoughtless  child,  there  was  a  woman's  loving 


carefulness  for  others,  a  woman's  utiselfishness  , 
and  devotion. 

Edward  Arundel  did  not  understand  all  this, 
but  perhaps  the  greater  part  of  it. 

'She  is  a  dear  little  thing,'  he  thougjjt,  as  be 
watched  her  clinging  to  her  father's  arm:  and  then 
he.ran  off  about  IMarchmont  Towers,  and  insisted 
upon  being  shown  over  the  house;  and  perhaps 
for  the  first  time  since  the  young  heir  had  shot 
himself  to  death  upon  a  bright  September  morn- 
ing in  a  stubble-field  within  car-shot  of  the  park, 
the  sound  of  merry  laughter  echoed  through  the 
long  corridors,  and  resounded  in  the  unoccupied 
rooms. 

Edward  Arundel  was  in  raptures  with  every 
thing.  There  never  was  such  a  dear  old  place, 
he  said.  'Gloomy,'  'dreary,'  'draughty,' pshaw! 
Cut  a  few  logs  out  of  that  wood  at  the  back  there, 
pile  'em  up  in  the  wide  chimneys,  and  set  a  light 
to  'em,  and  Marchmont  Towers  would  be  like  a 
baronial  mansion  at  Christmas-time.  He  declared 
that  every  dingy  portrait  he  looked  at  was  a  Ru- 
bens or  a  Velasquez  or  a  Vandyke,  a  Holbein  or 
a  Lely. 

'Look  at  that  fur  border  to  the  old  woman's 
black  velveUgown,  John;  look  at  the  coloring  of 
the  hands!  Do  you  think  that  any  body  but  Peter 
Paul  could  have  painted  that.'  Do  you  see  that 
girl  with  the  blue  satin  stomacher  and  the  flaxen 
ringlets? — one  of  your  ancestresses.  Miss  Mary, 
and  very  like  you.  If  that  isn't  in  Sir  Peter  Lely's 
best  style — his  earlier  style,  you  knOw,  before  he 
was  spoiled  by  royal  patronage  and  got  lazy — I 
know  nothing  of  painting.' 

The  young  soldier  ran  on  in  this  manner,  as  he 
hurried  his  host  from  room  to  room:  now  throw- 
ing open  windows  to  look  out  at  the  w  et  prospect; 
now  rapping  against  the  wainscoat  to  find  secret 
hiding-places  behind  sliding  panels;  nowstamping 
on  the  oak  flooring  in  the  hope  of  discovering  a 
trap-door.  He  pointed  out  at,  least  ten  eligible 
sites  for  the  building  of  the  tennis-court;  he  sug- 
gested more  alterations  and  improvements  than  a 
builder  could  have  completed  in  a  lifetime.  The 
place  brightened  under  the  influence  of  his  pres- 
ence, as  a  landscape  lights  up  under  a  bur^t  of 
sudden  sunshine  breaking  through  a  dull  gray 
sky. 

Mary  Marchmont  did  not  wait  for  the  removal 
of  the  table-cloth  that*  evening,  but  dined  with 
her  father  at  d  his  friend  in  a  snug  oak-paneled 
chamber,  ha  If  breajcfast-room,half  librai'y,  whicli 
opened  out  of  the  western  drawing-room.  How 
difl'erent  Edward  Arundel  wa«lo  all  the  rest  of 
the  world,  Miss  Marchmont  thought;  how  gay, 
how  bright,  how  genial,  how  happy  !  The  county- 
families,  mustered  in  their  fullest  force,  ciuldn't 
make  such  mirth  among  them  as  this  young  sol- 
dier in  his  single  person. 

The  evening  was  an  evening  in  fairy-land.* Life 
was  sometimes  like  the  last  scene  in  a  pantomime, 
after  all,  with  rose-colored  cloud  and  golden 
sunlight. 

One  of  the  Marchmont  servants  went  over  to 
Swampington  early  the  next  day  to  fetch  Mr. 
Arundel's  portmanteaus  from  the  Rectory;  and 
after  dinner  U])on  that  second  evering  Mary 
Marchmont  took  her  seat  opposite  E#ward,  nnd 
listened  reverently  while  Jie  explained  loher  the 
moves  upon  the  chess-board. 

'So  you  don't  kT)ow  my  cousin  Olivia.-'  the 
young  soldier  said,  by-and-by.  'That's  odd  I  1 
should  have  thought  she  would  haTc  called  upon 
you  long  before  this.' 


wo  JOHN  MARCHMONT'S  LEQACY. 

Mary  Marchmont  shook  her  hekd.  \  pools  lie  here  and  there  aboiiUlhe  marshy  suburbs; 

'No,' she  said;  'Miss  Arundel  has  never  been,'  and  in  the  dim  distance  the  low  line  of  the  gray 
to  see  us;  and  I  should  so  like  to  have  seen  her, ;  sea  meets  the  horizon. 

because  she  v?ould  have  told  me  about  you.  Mr. ;'.  But  perhaps  the  positive  ugliness  of  the  town 
Arundel  has  called  once  or  twice  upon  papa;  but ,  is  something  redeemed  by  the  vague  air  of  ro- 
I  hav^never  seen  him.  He  is  not  our  clergyman, '  niance  and  old-world  mystery  which  pervades  it. 
you  know;  Marchmont  Towers" belongs  to  Kem->  It  is~ an  exceptional  place,  and  somewhat  inter- 
"berling  Parish.'  .        f  esting  thereby.     The  great  Norman  church  upon 

•To  be  sure;  and  Swampington  is  ten  miles  off. ,  the  swampy  wasfe,  the  scattered  tombstones,  bor- 
But,  for  all  that,  I  should  have  tl]ought  Olivia :  dered  by  the  low  and  moss-grown  walls,  make  a 
would  have  called  upon  you.  I'll  drive  you  over  picture  which  is  apt  to  dwell  in  the  minds  of  those 
to-morrow,  if  John  thinks  me  whip  enough  to  who  look  upon  it,  though  it  is  by  no  means  a 
trust  you  with  me,  and  you  shall  see  Livy.  The,  pretty  picture.  The  Rectory  lies  close  to  the 
Kectory's  such  a  queer  old  place  !'  ■  church-yard;  and  a  wicket-gate  opens  from  Mr. 

Perhaps  Mr.  Marchmont  was  rather  doubtful )  Arundel's  garden  into  a  narrow  pathway,  leading 
as  to  the  propriety  of  committing,  his  little  girl  to  across  a  patch  of  tangled  grass  and  through  a 
Edward  Arundel's  charioteership  for  a  ten-mile ,  lane  of  sunken  and  lop-sided  tombstones,  to  the 
drive  upon  a  wretched  road.  Be  it  as  it  might,  a '  loW  vestry  door.  The  Rectory. itself  is  a  long, 
lumbering-  barouche,  with  a  pair  of  overfed  horses,  irregular  building,  to  which  one  incumbent  after 
was  ordered  next  morning,  instead  of  the  high,  another  has  built  the  additional  chamber,  or 
old-fashioned  gig  which  the  soldier  had  proposed;  chimney,  or  porch,  or  bow-window,  necessary  for 
drivin'';  and  the  safety  of  the  two  young  people;  his  accommodation.  There  is  very  little  garden 
was  confided  to  a  sober  old  coachman,  rather  in  front  of  the  house,  but  a  patch  of  lawn  and 
sulky  at  the  prospect  of  a  drive  to  Swampington :  shrubbery  and  a  clump  of  old  trees  at  the  back, 
so  soon  after  the  rainy  weather.  'It's  not  a  pretty  house,  is  it,  Miss  Marchmont^ 

It  does  not  rain  always  even  in  this  part  of ;  asked  Edward,  as  he  lifted  his  companion  out  ol 
Lincolnshire;  and  the 'July  morning  was  bright' the  carriage. 

and  pleasant,  the  low  hedges  fragrant  with  starry,/  'No,  not  very  pretty,'  Mary  answered;  'but  I 
opal-tinted  wild  roses  and  waxen  honey-suckle,)  don't  think  anything  is  pretty  in  Lincolnshire, 
the  vellowing  corn  waving  in  the  light  summer}' Oh,  there's  the  seaV  she  cried,  looking  suddenly 
breeze.  Mary  assured  her  companion  that  she;  across  the  marshes  to  the  low  gray  line  in  the  dis- 
had  no  objection  whatever  to  the  odor  of  cigar  Stance.  'How  I  wish  we  were  as  near  the  sea  at 
smoke;  so  Wr.  Arundel  lolled  upon  the  comfort-/  Marchmont  Towers  !'• 

able  cushions  of  the  barouche,  with  his  back  to''  The  young  lady  had  something  of  a  romantic 
the  horses,  smoking  chei'oots  and  talking  gayly,tpassion  for  the  wide-spre!^ding  ocean.  It  was  an 
while  Miss  Marchmont  sat  in  the  place  of  state/ unknown  region,  that  stretched  far  away,  and 
opposite  to  him.  A  happy  drive:  a  drive  in  a/ that  was  wonderful  and  beautiful  by  reason  of  its 
fairy  chariot  through  regions  of  Tairy-land,  for-/ solemn  mystery.  All  her  Corsair  stories  were 
ever  and  forever  to  be  remembered  by  Mary,' allied  to  that  far,  fathomless  deep.  The  white 
Marchmont.  ^  sail  in  the  distance  was  Conrad's,  perhaps;  and 

They  left  the  straggling  hedges  and  the  yellow--  he  was  speeding  homeward  to  find  Mcdora  dead 
ing  corn  behind  them  by-and-by,  as  they  drew/ in  her  lonely  watch-tower,  with  fading  flowers 
near  the  outskirts  of  Swampington.  The  town.' upon  her  breast.  The  black  hull  yonder  was  the 
lies  lower  even  than  the  surrounding  country, ',  bark  of  some  terrible  pirate  bound  on  rapine  and 
Hat  and  low  as  that  country  is-  A.  narrow  and  !' r^ivage.  (She  was  a  coal-barge,  I  have  no  doubt, 
dismal  river  crawls  at  the  base  of  a  half-ruined  ■;  sailing  Londenward  with  her  black  burden.) — 
wclU,  which  once  formed  part  of  the  defenses  of-;  Nymphs  and  Lurleis,  Mermaids  and  Mermen,  and 
the  place.  Black  barges  lie  at  anchor  here,  and  ;;  tiny  water-babies  with  silver  tails,  forever  splash- 
a  stone  bridge,  guarded  by  a  toll-house,  spans  the  !;  ing  in  the  sunshine,  were  all  more  or  less  asso- 
river.  Mr.  Marchmont's  carriage  lumbered  across  ;  ciated  with  the  long  gray  line  toward  which 
this  bridge,  and  under  an  arch-way,  low,  dark,  >,  Mary  Marchmont  looked  with  solemn,  yearning 
stony,  and  grim,  into  a  narrow  street  of  solid,  •;  eyes. 

well-built  houses,  low,  dark,  stony,  and  grim,>  'We'll  drive  down  to  the  sea-shore  some  morn- 
like the  arch-way,  but  beanng  the  stamp  of  repu-Jj^  i^ljy,' said  Mr.  Arundel.  He  was  beginning 
table  occupation.  I  believe  the  grass  grew,  and  ;^q  ^.^U  j^er  Polly,  now  and  then,  in  the  easy  fa- 
still  grows,  in  this  street,  as  it  does  in  all  the  ^  jj^i]i^^.j,j.  ^f  thgjr  intercourse.  'We'll  spend  a 
other  streets  and  in  the  market-place  of  Swamp-;  jo„^j^yo„  ^^g  sands,  and  I'll  smoke  cheroots 
inglon.  They  are  all  pretty  much  m-  the  same  •;  ^^,,-,3  you  pick  up  shells  and  sea-weed.' 
style,  tliesestreels--all  stony   narr^^^^^^^^^  Marchmont  clasped  her  hands  in  silent 

grim;  ^'^^^'^^J '':''''^ ^^1'^''']}''^}^^^^  Her  face  was  irradiated  by  the  new 

cini*  in  and  out,  m  a  manner  utterJy  Dewudering    ;.  r/     r  i.       ■  m  11*1 

an(T  m  anu  uu..,  1  ^ppino-  iiipf  ,v,p*    light  of  happiness.     How  good  he  was  to  her, 

^re'al   aSias'r  r^dmtk;  ?Sr"hfs   ^Mant'    t4  brave  sSSlier,  who  must  undoubtedly  be  made 

There  are  two  handsome  churches,  both  bear-'  Commander-.n-chief  of  the  Army  of  the  Indus  m 

ing  an  early  date  in  the  history  of  Norman  su- ',  ^  y^^i"  or  so  • 

nremacv-  one  crowded  into  an  inconvenient  cor- :     Ldward  Arundel  led  his  companion  across  the 

ner  of  a  back  street,  and   choked  by  the  houses  (  flagged  way  between  the  iron  gate  of  the  Rectory 

built  up  round  about  it;  the  other  lying  a  little '  garden   and   a  half-glass   door  leading    into  the 

o'lt  oitlffe  town,  upon  a  swampy  waate  looking ;  hall.     Out  of  this  ^simple  hall,  only  furnished 

toward  the  sea,  which   flows  within  a  mile  of ;  with  a  couple  of  chairs,  a  barometer,  and  an  um- 

Swamninffton      Indeed,  there  is  no  lack  of  water  ,  brella-stantl,  they  went,  without  announcement, 

in  that  Lincolnshire  borough.    The  river  winds;  into  alow  old-fashioned  room,  half  study,  half 

about  the  outskirts  of  the  town;    unexpected  ;  parlor,  where  a  young  lady  was  sitting  at  a  tabic 

creeks  and  inlets  meet  you  at  every  angle;  shallow  { writing. 


JOHN  MARCHMONT'S  LEGACY. 


23 


She  rose  as  Edward  opened  the  door,  and  came  ! 
to  meet  him. 

'At  last !'  she  said;  'I  thought  your  rich  friends  | 
engrossed  all  your  attention.'  •  ' 

She  paused,  seeing  Mary.  f 

'This  is  Miss  Marchniont,  Olivia,'  said  Ed-, 
ward;  'the  only  daughter  of  ray  old  fri/and. —  ] 
You  must  be  very  fond  of  her,  please;  for  she  is  ' 
a  dear  little  girl,  and  I  know  she  means  to  love  ^ 
you.'  ; 

Mary  lifted  her  soft  brown  eyes  to  the  face  of  ' 
the  young  lady,  and  then  dropped  her  eyelids  sud- 
denly, as  if  half  frightened  by  what  she  had  seen 
there. 

Whatwas'it?  What  was  it  in  Olivia  A'-un-' 
del's  handsome. face  from  which  those  who  lot  'icd  j 
at  her  so  often  shrank,  repelled  and  disappointed  r ; 
Every  line  in  those  perfectly-modeled  features  ; 
w.-fs  beautiful  to  look  at;  but  as  a  whole  the  face  :• 
was  not  beautiful.  Perhaps  it  was  too  much  like  ; 
a  marble  mask,  exquisitely  chiseled,  but  wanting) 
in  variety  of  expression.  The  handsome  mouth  J 
wa#rigid;  the  dark  gray  eyes  had  a  cold  light  in  j 
them.  The  thick  bands  of  raven-black  hair  were  j 
drawn  tightly  .off'  a  square  forehead,  which  was  j 
the  brow  of  an  intellectual  and  determined  man  j 
rather  than  of  a  woman.  Yes,  womanhood  was  ; 
the  something  wanted  in  Olivia  Arundel's. face. 
Intellect,  resolution,  courage,  are  rare  gifts;  but  t 
they  are  not  the  gifts  whose  itokens  we  look  for  .' 
most  anxiously  in  a  woman's  face. "If  Miss  Arun-  ■ 
del  had  been  a  queen,  her  diadem  would  have  be- ! 
come  hei'  nobly,  and  she  might  have  been  a  very  ■ 
great  queen;  but  Heaven  help  the  wretched  crea-  \ 
ture  who  had  appealed  from  milder  tribunals  to  : 
/ler  mercy  !  Heaven  help  delinquents  of  every  ■ 
kind  whose  last  lingering  hope  had  been  in  her ; 
compassion !  | 

Perhaps  Mary  Marchmont  vaguely 'felt  some-  j 
thing   of  all   this.      At  any  rate,  the  enthusiasm 
with  which  she  had  been  ready  to  regard  Edward  | 
Arundel  cooled  suddenly   beneath  the  winter  in  | 
that  pale,  quiet  face.  I 

Miss   Arundel  said   a  few  words  td  her  guest, ; 
kindly  enough,  but  rather  too  much  as  if  she  had 
been  addressing  a  child  of  six.      Mary,  who  was  ^ 
accustomed  to  be  treated  as  a  woman,  was  wound- 
ed by  her  manner.    • 

'llotr  different  she  is  to  Edward  !'  thought  Miss 
Marchmont.  '1  shall  never  like  her  as  1  like  him.': 

'So  this  is  the  pale-faced  child  who  is  to  iiave 
Marchmont    Towers    by-and-by,'   thought   Miss) 
Arundel; 'and  these  rich  fn'ends  are  tiie  people- 
for  whom  Edward  stays  away  from  us.' 

The  lines  about  the  rigid  mouth  grew  harder,  i 
the  cold  light  in  the  gray  eyes  grew  colder,  as  the 
young  lady  thought  this. 

It  was  thus  that  these  two  women  met:  while 
one  was  but  a  child  in  years;  while  the  other  was 
yet  in  the  early  bloom  of  womanhood:  these  two, 
who  were  predestined  to  hate  each  other,  and  in- 
flict suffering  upon  each  other  in  the  days  that 
were  to  come.  It  wns  llius  that  they  thought  of 
one  another;  each  with  an  unreasoning  dread,  an 
undefined  aversion  gathering  in  her  breast, 


heart,  to  boast  of  his  prowess  before  Mary  and 
her  father. 

The  young  man  was  by  this  time  familiar  with 
every  nook  and  corner  of  Marchmont  Towers; 
and  the  builders  were  already  at  work  at  the  ten- 
nis-court which  John  had  promised  to  erect  for  his 
friend's  pleasure.  The  site  ultimately  chosen  was 
a  bleak  corner  of  the  eastern  front,  looking  to  the 
wood;  but  as  Edward  declared  the  spot  in  every 
way  eligible,  John  had  no  inclination  to  find  fault 
with  his  friend's  choice.  There  was  other  work 
for  the  builders;  for  Mr.  Arundel  had  taken  a  won- 
derful fancy  to  a  ruined  boat-house  upon  the  brnik 
of  the  rivcf ;  and  this  boat-house  was  to  be  rebuilt 
and  restored,  and  made  into  a  delightful  pavilion, 
in  the  upper  chambers  of  which  Mary  might  sit 
with  her  father  in  thchot%ummer  weather,  while 
Mr.  Arundel  kept  a  couple  of  trim  wherries  in 
the  recesses  below. 

So  you  see  the  young  man  made  himself  very 
much  at  home,  in  his  own  innocent,  boyish  fash- 
ion ,  at  Marchmont  Towers.  Hut  as  he  had  brought 
life  and  light  to  the  old  Lincolnshire  mansion,  no- 
body was  inclined  to  ([uarrel  with  him  for  an\ 
liberties  which  he  might  choose  to  take;  and  ever} 
one  looked  forward  sorrowfully  to  the  dark  daj^ 
before  Christmas,  at  which  time  he  was  under  a 
promise  to  return  to  Dangertield  Park,  there  lo 
spend  the  remainder  of  .his  leave  of  absence. 


CHAPTER  VII. 


OLIVIA. 


While  busy  workmen  were  employed  at  March- 
mont Towers,  hammering  at  the  fragile  wood<*n 
walls  of  the  tennis-court — while  Mary  March- 
mont and  lidward  Arundel  wandered,  with  the 
dogs  at  their  heels,  among  the  rustle  of  the  fallen 
leaves  in  the  wood  beliind  the  great  gaunt  Lin- 
colnshire mansion — 'Jlivia,  the  Rector's  daughter, 
sat  ill  her  father's  quiet  study,  or  walked  to  and 
fro  in  the  gloomy  streets  of  Swampinglon,  doing 
tier  duty  day  by  day. 

Yes,  the  lifc'of  ttiis  woman  is  told  in  these  few 
wordi;  she  did  her  duty.  From  the  earliest  age 
at  which  responsibility  can  begin  she  had  done  her 
duty,  uncomplainingly,  unswervingly,  as  it  seemed 
to  those  who  watched  her. 

She  was  a  good  woman.  The  bishop  of  the  di- 
ocese had  specially  complimented  her  for  her 
active  devotion  to  the  holy  work  which  falls  some- 
what heavily  upon  the  only  daugiiterof  a  widowtd 
rector.  All  the  stately  dowagers  about  Swamp- 
ington  v/eie  loud  in  the  praises  of  Olivia  Arun- 
del. Such  devoti^,  such  untiring  zeal  in  a  young 
jicrson  of  three-and-twenly  years,  of  age,  weje 
really  most  laudable,  these  solemn  elders  said, 
in  terms  of  sujiremc  patronage;  for  the  young 
saint  of  whom  ihcy  spoke  wore  shahby  gowns, 
and  was  the  portionless  daughter  of  a  poor  man 
who  had  let  the  world  slip  by  him,  and  who  i-at 
now  amidst  the  dreaiy  rums  of  a  wasted  life,  look- 
ing yearningly  backward  with  hollow,  regretful 
ejcs,  and  bewailing  the  <  liancc?  he  had  lost.  Hu- 
bert Arundel  loved  his  daughter;  loved  her  With 
that  passionate,  sorrowful  afl'eclion  we  feel  for 
those  who  suffer  for  our  sins,  whose  lives  have 
been  blighted  by  our  follies. 

Every  shabby  gai'meiit  which  Olivia  wore  was 
a  separate  reproach  to  her  father;  every  depriva. 
lion  she  endured  stung  Mm  as  cruelly  as  if  shr 


24 


JOHN  MARCHMONT'S  LEGAC'i'. 


had  turned  upon  hiai  and  loudly  upbraided  him  ]  every  side  with  calm,  scrutinizing  eyes;  rigidly 
for  his  wasted  life  and* his  squandered  patrimony.  |  just,  terribly  perfect. 

He  loved  her;  and  he  watched  her  day  after  day,  )  It  was  a  fearfully  monotonous,  narrow,  and  un- 
doing her  duty  to  him  as  to  all  others;  doing  her  ;  e\entful  life  which  Olivia  Arundel  led  at  Swamp- 
duty  forever  and  forever;  but  when  he  most ,' ingtoa  Rectory.  At  three-and-twenty  years  of 
yearned  to  take  lier  to  his  heart,  her  own  cold  per- 1  age  she  could  have  written  her  history  upon  a  few 
fections  arose  and  separated  him  from  the  child  (  pages.  The  world  outside  that  dull  Lincolnshire 
he  loved.  What  was  he  but  a  poor,  vacillating,  )  town  was  shaken  by  convulsions,  and  made  irre- 
erring  creature:  weak,  supine,  idle,  epicurean;  :  cognizable  by  repeated  change;  but  all  these  outer 
unworthy  to  approach  this  girl,  who  never  seemed  ;  changes  and  revolutions  made  themselves  but  little 
to  sicken  of  the  hardness  of  her  life — w:ho  never  ;  felt  in- the  quiet  grass-grown  streets,  and  the  flat 
grew  weary  of  well-doing?  ^  ■  surrounding  swamps,  within  whose  narrow  bound- 

But  how  was  it  that,  for  all  her  goodness,  01i-;ary  Olivia  Arundel  had  lived  from  infancy  to 
via  Arundel  won  so  small  a  share  of  Qarthly  re- 1  womanhood;  performing  and  repeating  the  same 
ward  ?  I  do  not  speak  of  the  gold  and  jewels  and  ;  duties  from  day  to  day,  with  no  other  progress  to 
other  worldly  benefits  with  which  the  fairies  in  j  mark  the  lapse  of  her  existence  than  the  slow 
our  children's  story-books  reward  the  benevolent ;  alternation  of  the  seasons,  and  the  dark  hollow 
mortals  who  take  compassion  upon  them  in  the  ;  circles  which  had  lately  deepened  beneath  her 
guise  of  old  women;  but  rather  of  the  io.ve  and  ^  gray  eyes,  and  the  depressed  lines  about  the  cor- 
gratitude,  the  tenderness  and  blessings  Avhich  usu-  <  ners  of  her  firm  lower  lip. 

ally  wait  upon  the  footsteps  of  those  who  do  good  ;  These  outward  tokens,  beyond  her  own  control, 
deeds.  Olivia  Arundel's  charities  were  never  ;  Slone  betrayed  this  woman's  secret.  She  was 
(jcasing;  her  life  was  one  perpetual  sacrifice  to  |  weary  of  her  life.  She  sickened  under  thedull» 
her  father's  parishioners.  There  v^as  no  natural  !  burden  which  she  had  borne  so  long,  and  carried 
womanly  vanity,  no  simple  girlish  fancy,  which  [  so  patiently.  The  slow  round  of  duty  was  loath- 
this  woman  ha^d  not  trodden  underfoot,  and  tram-  j  some  to  her.  The  horrible,  narrow,  unchanging 
pled  out  in  the  hard  pathway  she  had  chosen  for  ]  existence,  shut  in  by  huge  walls,  which  bounded 
herself.  ,  her  on  every  side  and  kept  her  prisoner  to  her- 

The  poor  people  knew  this.  Rheumatic  men  '•  self,  was  odious  to  her.  The  powerful  intellect 
and  women,  crippled  and  bedridden,  knew  that  j  revolted  against  the  fetters  that  bound  and  galled 
the  blankets  which  covered  them  hadt)een  bought '  it.  The  proud  heatt  beat  with  murderous  vio- 
out  of  money  that  would  have  purchased  silk  /  lence  against  the  bonds  that  kept  it  captive, 
dresses  for  the  Rector's  handsome  daughter,  or  >  'Is  my  life  always  to  be  this — always,  always, 
luxuries  for  the  frugal  table  at  the  Rectory. —  ;  always  ?'  The  passionate  nature  burst  forth  some- 
They  knew  this.  Tliey  knew  that,  through  frost  i  times,  and  the  voice  that  had  so  long  been  stifled 
and  snow,  through  storm  and  rain,  Olivia  Arun- ;  cried  aloud  in  the  black  stillness  of  the  night,  *Is 
del  would  come  to  sit  beside  thcirdreary  hearths, '  it  to  go  on  forever  and  forever,  like  the  slow  river 
thftir  desolate  sick-beds,  and  read  holy  books  to  '  that  creeps  under  the  broken  wall  ?  Oh  my  God  ! 
them;  sublimely  indifferent  to  the  foul  weather  '  is  the  lot  of  other  women  never  to  be  mine  .>  Am 
without,  to  the  stifling  atmosphere  wiihin,  to  din,  I  I  never  to  be  loved  and  admired;  never  tO  be 
discomfort,  poverty,  inconvenience;  heedless  of  ^  sought  and  chosen?  Is  my  life  to  be  all  of  one 
all  except  the  performance  of  the  task  she  had  >  dull,  gray,  colorless  monotony;  without  one  sud- 
set  herself.  j  den  gleam  of  sunshine,  without  one  burst  of  rain- 

People  knew  this,  and  they  were  grateful  to  i  bow  light?'. 
Miss  Arundel,  and  submissive  and  attentive  in  her  ;  How  shall  1  anatomize  this  woman,  who,  gifted 
presence;  they  gave  her  such  return  as  they  were  |  with  no  womanly  tenderness  of  nature,  unen- 
able  to  give,  for  the  benefits,  spiritual  and  tempo-  dowed  with  that  pitiful  and  unreasoning  affection 
ral,  which  she  bestowed  upon  them;  but  they  did  >  which  makes  womanhood  beautiful,  yet  tried,  and 
not  love  her.  ;  tried  unceasingly,  to  do  her  duty  and  to  be  good; 

They  spoke  of  her  in  reverential  accents,  and  (  clinging,  in  the  very  blindness  of  her  soul,*to  the 
praised  her  whenever  her  name  was  mentioned;  |  rigid  formulas  of  her  faith,  but  unable  to  seize 
but  they  spo'ke  with  tearless  eyes  and  unfaltering  ■  upon'its  spirit.  Some  latent  comprehension  of  the 
voices.  Her  virtues  were  beautiful,  of  course, ;  want  in  her  nature  made  her  only  the  more  scru- 
as  virtue  in  the  abstract  must  always  be;  but d  ;  pulous  in  the  performance  of  those  duties  which 
think  there  was  a  want  of  individuality  in  her  !'  she  had  meted  out  for  herself.  The  holy  «enten- 
goodness,  a  lack  of  personal  tenderness  in  her  J  ces  slie  had  heard,  Sunday  after  Sunday,  feebly 
kindness,  whicfb  separated  her  from  the  people  i  read  by  her  father,  haunted  her  perpetually,  and 
she  benefited.  ^  ,^  would  not  be  put  away  from  her.    The  tenderness 

Perhaps  there  was  something  almost  chilling  in  >  in  every  word  of  those  familiar  gospels  was  a  re- 
the  dull  monotony  of  Mhs  Arundel's  benevolence,  j  proanh  to  the  want  of  tenderness  in  her  own 
'rhere  was  no  blemish  of  moral  weakness  upon  i  heart.  She  could  be  good  to  her  father's  parish- 
the  good  deeds  she  performed;  tind  the  recipients  ]  ioners,  and  she  could  make  sacrifices  for  them: 
of  her  bounties,  seeing  her  so  fur  ofi',  grew  afraid  j  but  she  .could  not  love  them  any  more  than  they 
of  her,  even  by  reason  of  her  goodness,  and  c.ouldY  could  love  lier.  ^ 

not  love  her.  _  •  '      That  divine  and  universal  pity,  that  spontane- 

She  made  no  favorites  ^mong  her  father's  pn-  ous  and  bo|mdless  affection,  which  is  the  chief 
rishioners.      Of  all  the  school-children  she  had    loveliness   of  womanhood   and  Christianity,  had 


taught,  she  had  never  chosen  one  curly-hoaded 
iiroliin  for  a  pet.  She  liad  no  good  dajs  and  had 
day:  she  was  never  f)olishly  indulgent  or  ex'rnv- 
agatitiy  cordial.  She  was  always  the  saine — 
(yhurch-of-Kngland    charity    jictsonified;    meting 


no  part  in  ner  nature.  She  could  understand  Ju- 
dith with  the  Assyrian  general's  gory  head  held- 
aloft  in  her  up'ifted  hand;  but  she  could  not  conr- 
prohend  that  diviner  mystery  of  sinful  Magda- 
lene sittim^  at  her  Master's  feet  with  the  shame 


out  all  mercies  by  line  and  rule;  doing  good  with  !  ani^love  in  her  lace  half-hidden  by  a  veiiof  droop- 
a  note-book  and  a  pencil  in  her  hand;  looking  on  J  ing  hair. 


JOHN  MARCHMONT'S  LEGACY.  25 

No;  Olivia  Arundel  was  not  a  good  woman  in  ^  '  Miss  Arundel  stood  by  the  Rectory  gate  in  the 
the  commoner  sense  we  attach  to  the  phrase.  It 'early  September  evening,  watching  the  western 
was  not  natural  to  uer  to  be  gentle  and  tender,  to  ,  sunlight  on  the  low  sea-line  beyond  the  marshes, 
he  beneficent,  compassionate,  and  kind,  as  it  is  to  She  was  wearied  and  worn  out  By  a  long  day  de- 
the  women  we  are-  accustomed  to  call  'good.' ,  voted  to  visiting  among  her  parishioners;  and  she 
She  was  a  woman  who  was  forever  fighting  against ,' stood  with  her  elbow  leaning  on  the  pate,  and  her 
her  nature;  who  was  forever  striving  to  do  right;  |  head  resting  on  her  hand,  in  an  attitude  peculiarly 
forever  walking  painfully  upon  the  difficult  road  expressive  of  fatigue.  She  had  thrown  off  her 
mapped  out  for  her;  forever  measuring  herself  by  bonnet,  and  her  black  hair  was  pushed  carelessly 
the  standard  she  had  setup  fo^her  self-abase-  from  her  forehead.  Tiiose  masses  of  hair  had  not 
ment.  And  who  shall  soy  that  such  a  woman  as  ;>  that  purple  lustre,  nor  yet  that  wandering  glimmer 
this,  if  she  persevere  unto  the  end,  shall  not  wear 'of  red  gold,  which  gives  peculiar  beauty  to  some 
a  brighter  cro%vn  than  her  more  gentle  sisters —  raven  tresses.  Olivia's  hair  was  long  and  luxu- 
Ihe  starry  circlet  of  a  martyr?  riant,   but   it  was   of  that  dead    inky  blackness, 

Jf  she  persevere  unto  the  end  !  But  was  Olivia  which  is  all  shadow.  It  was  dark,  fathomless, 
Arundel  the  woman  to  do  this?  The  deepening  inscrutable,  like  herself.  The  cold  pray  eyes 
circles  about  her  eyes,  the  hollowing  cheeks,  and  ,  looked  tboughtfufty  seaward.  Another  day's  dutj 
the  feverish  restlessness  of  manner  which  siie  had  been  done.  Long  chapters  of  Holy  Writ  had 
could  not  always  control,  told  how  terrible  the  been  read  to  troublesome  old  women  allHcted  with 
long^strugglc  had  become  to  her.  If  she  could  perpetual  coughs;  stifling,  airless  cottages  had 
have  dieir  then— if  she  had  fallen  beneath  the  ;  been  visited;  the  dull,  unvarying  track  had  been 
Aveight  of  her  burden — what  a  record  of  sin  and  ;  beaten  by  the  patient  feet,  and  the  yellow  sim  was 
anguisii  might  have  remained  unwritten  in  the 'going  down  upon  another  joyless  day.  But  did 
history  of  woman's  life  !  But  this  woman  was  the  still  evening  hour  bring  peace  to  that  restless 
one  oi  those  who  can  suffer,  and  yet  not  die.  She  spirit?  No:  by  the  rigid  compression  of  the  lips, 
bore  her  burden  a  little  longer;  only  to  fling  it ;  by  the  feverish  lustre  in  the  eyes,  by  the  faint 
down  by-and-by,  and  to  abandon  herself  to  tlie  •  hectic  flush  in  the  oval  cheeks,  by  every  outward 
eager  devils  who  had  been  watching_for  her  so  *. sign  of  inward  unrest,  Olivia  Arupdel  was  not  at 
untiringly.  '  J  peace.  The  listlassness  of  her  attitude  was  merely 

Hubert  Arundel  was  afraid  of  his  daughter,  the  listlessness  of  physical  fatigue.  The  mental 
The  knowledge  that  he  had  wronged  her — ^vronged  struggle  was  not  finished  with  the  close  of  the 
her  even  before  her  birth  by  the  foolish  waste  of  day's  work.  , 

his  patrimony,  and  wronged  her  through  life  by  '  The  young  lady  looked  up  suddenly  as  the  tramp 
his  lack  of  energy  in  seeking  such  advancement,  of  a  horse's  hoofs,  slow  and  lazy-sounding  on  the 
as  a  more  ambitious  man  might  have  won — the  smooth  road,  met  her  ear.  Her  eyes  dilated,  and 
knowledge  of  this,  and  of  his  daughter's  superior;  her  breath  went  and  came  more  rapidly,  but  she 
virtues,  combined  to  render  the^  father  ashamed  ,'  did  not  stir  from  her  weary  attitude, 
and  humiliated  by^the  presence  of  his  only  child.  '  The  horse  was  from  the  stables  at  Marchmont 
Tiie  struggle  between  this  fear  and  his  passionate  Towers,  ar-I  the  rider  was  Mr.  Arundel.  He  came 
love  of  her  was  a  very  painful  one;  but  fear  had  smiling  to  the  Rectory  gate,  with  the  low  sun- 
the  mastery,  and  the  Rector  of  Swampington  was  shine  glittering  in  his  yellow  hair,  and  the  light 
content  to  stand  aloof,  mutely  watchful  of  his  of  careless,  indill'erent  happiness  irradiating  his 
daughter,   wondering   feebly    whether    she   was  ^  hantjsome  face. 

happy,  striving  vainly  to  discover  that  one  secret,  'You  must  have  thought  I'd  forgotten  you  and 
that  keystone  of  the  soul,  which  must  exist  in  my  uncle,  my  dear  Livy,'  he  said,  as  he  sprang 
every  nature,  however  outwardly  commonplace.  :  lightly  from  his  horse.  'We've  been  so  busy  with 
Mr.  Arundel  had  hoped  that  his  daughter  would  the  tennis-court,  and  the  boat-house,  and  the  par- 
inarry,  and  marry  well,  even  at  Swampington;  tridges,  and  goodness  knows  what  besides  at  the 
(or  there  were  rich  young  land-owners  who  visited  Towers,  that  I  couldn't  get  the  time  to  ride  over 
at  the  Rectory.  But  Olivia's  handsome  face  won  till  this  evening.  But  to-day  we 'dined  early, 
her  no  admirers,  and  at  three-and-twenty  Miss  ,  on  purpose  that  I  might  have  the  chance  of  gel*. 
Arundel  had  received  no  offer  9f  marriage.  The  ting  here.  I  come  upon  an  important  mission, 
father  reproached  himself  for  this.  It  was  he  Livy,  I  assure  you.' 
who  had  blighted  the  lite  of  this  penniless  girl;       'What  do  you  mean  ?' 

it  was  his  fault  that  no  suitors  came  to  woo  his  There  was  no  change  in  Miss  Arundel's  voire 
motherless  child.  Yet  many  dowerless  maiden? ;'  when  she  spoke  to  her  cousin  ;  but  there  was  a 
have  been  sought  and  loved;  and  I  do  not  think  <  ciiange,  not  easily  to  he  defined,  in  her  jace  when 
it  was  Olivia's  lack  of  fortune  which  kept  admi-  r  ^hc  looked  at  him.  It  seemed  as  if  tfiat  weary 
rers  at  bay.  I  believe  it  was  rather  that  inhereni  ;  hopelessness  of  expression  which  had  settled  on 
want  of  tenderness  which  chilled  and  dispirited  '  her  countenance  lately  grew  more  weary,  more 
the  timid  young  Lincolnshire  squires.  \  hopeless,  as  she  turned  toward  this  bright  Joung 

Had  Olivia  ever  been  in  love?  Hubert  Arun- >  soldier,  glorious  in  the  beauty  of  his  own  light- 
del  constantly  asked  himself  this  question.  He  |  heartedness.  It  may  have  been  merely  the  sharp- 
ilid  so  because  hf  saw  that  some  blighting  influ- 1  ness  of  contrast  which  produced  this  effect.  It 
rnre,  even  beyond  the  poverty  and  dulncss  of  her  i  may  have  been  an  actual  change  arising  out  ol 
home,  had  fallen  upon  the  life  of  his  only  child.!  some  secret  hidden  in  Olivia's  breast. 
What  was  it?  What  was  it?  Was  it  some  hope- 1  'What  do  you  mean  by  an  important  mission, 
less  attachment,  some  secret  tenderness,  which  (  Edward  ?' she  said, 
had  never  won  the  sweet  return  of  love  for  love?!      She  had  need  to  repeat  the  question;  for  tin* 

He  would  no  more   have  ventured  to  question   young  man's  attention  had  wandered  from  her, 
his  daughterupon  this  subject  than  he  would  have  I  and   he   was   watching  his  horse  aa  the  animal 
dared  to  ask  n is  fair  young  Queen,  newly  mar-'  cropped  the  tangled  herbage  about  the  Rectory 
ried  in  those  days,  whether  she  was  happy  with   gate, 
her  handsome  husband,  'Why, I've  come  witlj  aQ  iaTitaUontO  »dinnc^ 


:it,  JOHN  MARCHMONT'S  LEGACY. 

at  Marchmont  Towers.  There's  to  be  a  dinner- <  were  talking  of  you,  and  praising  your  goodness, 
party;  and,  in  point  of  fact,  it's  to  be  given  on  ;!  and  speaking  of  your  schools,  and  your  blanket 
purpose  for  you  and  my  uncle.  John  and  Polly  ;!  associations,  and  your  invalid  societies,  and  your 
are  full  of  it.  You'll  come,  won't  you,  Livy  ?'  ;:  relief  clubs,  and  all  your  plans  for  the  parish. — 
Miss  Arundel  shrugged  her  shoulders,  with  an  'i  Why,  you  must  work  as  hard  as  a  prime  minister, 
impatient  sigh.  f  Livy,  by  their  account;  you,  who  are  only  a  few 

'Ihatedinner-parties, 'she  said;  'but,  of  course, '^  years  older  than  me.' 
if  papa   accepts   Mr.  Marchmont's  invitation,  \',     Only  a  few  years  !      She  started  at  the  phrase, 
can  not  refuse  to  go.     Papa  must  choose  for  him-  \  and  bit  her  lip. 

self..  'i     '1  was  three^and-twenty  last  month,' she  said. 

There  Iiad  been  some  interchange  of  civilities  ^  'Ah,  yes;  to  be  sure.  And  I'm  one-and-twenty. 
between  Marchmont  Towers  and  Swampington  ;'Then  you're  only  two  years  older  than  me,  Livy. 
Rectory  duripg  the  six  weeks  which  had  passed  ;!  But,  then,  you  see,  you're  so  clever,  that  you  seem 
since  Mary's  introduction  to  Olivia  Arundel;  and  <  much  older  than  you  are.  You  make  a  fellow  feel 
this  dinner-party  was  the  result  of  John's  simple  ^rather  afraid  of  you,  you  know.  Upon  my  word 
desire  to  do  honor  to  his  friend'% kindred.  ^you  do,  Livy.' 

'Oh,  you  must  come,  Livy,'  Mr.  Arundel  ex-^  Miss  Arundel  did  not  reply  to  this  speech  of  her 
claimed.  'The  tennis-court  is  going  on  capitally,  o  cousin's.  She  was  walking  by  his  side  up  and 
I  want  you  to  give  us  your  opinion  again.  Shall  ^down  a  narrow  graveled  pathway,  bordered  by  a 
I  take  my  horse  round  to  the  stable  ?  I  am  going  ^  hazel -hedge;  she  had  gathered  one  of  the  slen- 
to  stop  an  hour  or  two,  and  ride  back  by  moon-  ^der  twigs,  and  was  idly  stripping  away  the  fluffy 
light.'  ^ends. 

Edward  Arundel  took  the  bridle  in   his  hand,  <     'What  do  you  think,  Livy  ?' cried  Edward,  sud- 
and  the  cousins  walked  slowly  round  by  the  low  ;,denly,  bursting  out  laughing  at  the  end  of  the 
garden  wall  to  a  dismal  and   rather  dilapidated  ;; question.     'What  do  you  think?    It's  my  belief 
stable  at  the  back  of  the  Rectory,  where  Hubert ;;  you've  made  a  conquest.' 
Arundel  kept  a  wall-eyed  white  horse,  long-legged,  <     'What  do  you  mean  r' 

shallow.chested^  and  large-headed,  and  a  fearfully  i  'There  you  go;  turning  upon  a  fellow  as  if  you 
and  wonderfully  made  phaeton,  with  high  wheels  ■)  could  eat  him.  Yes,  Livy;  it's  no  use  your  look- 
and  a  mouldy  leathern  hood.  ^Jing  savage.     You've  made  a  conquest;  aiad  of  one 

Olivia  walked  by  the  young  soldier's  side  with  <  of  the  best  fellows  in  the  world,  too.  John  March - 
that  air  of  weary  indifi'erence  that  had  so  grown  ;;mont^  in  love  with  you.* 

upon  her  very  lately,  her  eyelids  drooped  with  J  Olivia  Arundel's  lace  flushed  a  vivid  crimson  to 
a  look  of  sullen  disdain;  but  the  gray,  eyes  glanced  •)  the  roots  of  her  black  hair. 

furtively  now  and  again  at  her  companion's  hand-  <  'How  dare  you  come  here  to  insult  me,  Edward 
some  face.  He  was  very  handsome.  The  glitter ;'  Arundel.-'  she  cried,  passionately, 
of  golden  hair  and  of  bright  fearless  blue  eyes vs  'Insult  you  !  Now,  Livy  dear,  that's  too  bad, 
the  careless  grace  peculiar  to  the  kind  of  man  we  ^  upon  my  word,'  remonstrated  the  young  man.  'I 
eall  'a  swell;'  the  gay '  insouciance  of  an  easy,;;  come  and  tell  you  that  as  good  a  man  as  ever 
candid,  generous  nature — all  combined  to  make  ;;  breathed  is  over  head  and  ears  in  love  with  you, 
Edward  Arundel  singularly  attractive.  These  '.  and  that  you  may  be  mistress  of  one  of  the  finest 
spoiled  children  of  nature  demand  our  admira- <  estates  in  Lincolnshire  if  you  please,  and  you  turn 
tion,  in  very  spite  of  ourselves.  These  beautiful  <  round  upon  me  like  no  end  of  furies.* 
useless  creatures  caH  upon  us  to  rejoice  in  their  ,!  'Because  1  hate  to  hear  you  talk  nonsense,' 
valueless  beauty,  like  th^  flaunting  poppies  in  the  ;  answered  Olivia,  her  bosom  still  heaving  with  that 
corn-field,  and  the  gaudy  wild-flowers  in  the  ;  first  outburst  of  emotion,  but  her  voice  suppressed 
grass.  <  and  cold.      'Am  I  so  beautiful,  or  so  admired  or 

The  darkness  of  Olivia's  face  deepened  after '^  beloved,  that  a  man  who  has  not  seen  me  half  a 
each  furtive  ^ance  she  cast  at  her  cousin.  Could  [  dozen  times  should  fall  in  love  with  me.'  Do  those 
^^  be  that  this  girl,  to  whom  nature  had  given  ijvho  know  me  estimate  me  so  much,  or  prize  me 
strength  but  denied  grace,  envied  the  superficial  "so  highly,  that  a  stranger  should  think  of  me.' — 
attractions  of  the  young  man  at  her  side  ?  She  :  You  do  insult  me,  Edward  Arundel,  when  you  talk 
did  envy  him;  she  envied  him  that  sunny  temper-  :  as  you  have  talked  to-night.' 
ament  which  was  so  unlike  her  own;  she  envied  ^  She  looked  out  toward  the  low  yellow  light  in 
him  that  wondrous  power  of  taking  life  Hghtly.  {the  sky  with  a  black  gloom  upon  herfa'ce,  which 
Why  should  existence  be  so  bright  and  careless  to  ■;  no  reflected  glimmer  of  the  sinking  'un  could  il- 
him,  whikf  to  her  it  was  a  terrible  fever-dream,  a  ;  lumine;  a  settled  darkness,  near  akin  to  the  utter 
long  sickness,  a  never-ceasing  battle .'  ■  blackness  of  despair. 

'Is  my  uncle  in  the  house  .''  Mr.  Arundel  asked,  ;     'But,  good  Heavens,  Olivia,  what  do  you  mean  .-' 

ashegtrolled   from  the  stable   into  the  garden,  ^  cried  the  young  man.     'I  tell  you  something  that 

with  his  cousin  by  his  side.  )  I  think  a  good  joke,  atid  you  go  and  make  a  trag- 

'No;  he   has   been   owt  since   dinner,'   Olivia  j  edy  out  of  it.     If  I'd  told  Letitia  that  a  rich  wid- 

answered;  'but  I  expect  him  back  every  minute,  ;  ower  had  fallen  in   love  with  her,  she'd  think  it 

I  came  out  into  the  garden — the  house  seemed  so  ;■  the  finest  fun  in  the  world.' 

hot  and  stiflit^g  to-night,  and  I  have  been  sitting '^      'I'm  not  your  sister  Letitia.' 

in  close  cpttages  all  day.'  'No;  but"l  wish  you'd  half  as  good  a  temper  as 

'Sitting  in  close  cottages  !'  repeated  Edward.  ;  she  has,  Livy.     However,  never  mind;  I'll  say  no 

'Ah,  to  be  sure;  visiting  your  rheumatic  old  pen-  •  more.     If  poor  old  Marchmont  has  fallen  in  love 

sioners,  I  suppose.     How  good  you  are,  Olivia!'  :  with  you,  that's  his  look-out.     Poor  dear  old  boy, 

'Good  !'  .        '  he's  let  out  the  secret  of  his  weakness  half  a  dozen 

She  echoed  the  word  in  the  very  bitterness  of  a    ways  within  these  last  few  days.     Ij^s  Miss  Arun- 

icorn  that  could  not  be  repressed.  •■  del  this,  and  Miss   Arundel   the  other;  so  handj 

«Yes;  every  body  says  so.  The  Millw^rds  were  \  some,  so  dignified,  so  ladylilce,  so  good  !    That's 

\\  Marchmont  Towcre  the  other  day,  and  they  ^  the  way  he  goes  on,  poor  gimple  old  dear,  without 


JOHN  MARCHjMONT'S  LECrAGV 


27 


having  Ihe  remotest  notion  tliat  he's  making  a  ^  in  my  father's  study,  poring  over  tlic  books  tiiat 
confounded  fool  of  himself.'  were  too  difiicult  for  him  ?    What  have  I  made  of 

O)ivia»tossed  the  rumpled  hair  from  her  fore-   myself  in  my  pride  of  intellect?     What  reward' 


have  1  won  for  my  patience 

Olivia  Arundel  looked  hack  at  her  lone;  life  of 
dutjjp— a  dull,  dead  level,  unbroken  by  one  of  those 
monuments  whicii  mark  the  desert  of  the  pa,  t; 
a  desolate-Hat,  unlovely  as  the  marshes  between 
the  low  Rectory  wall  and  the  shimmei-ing  gray 
sea. 


CHAPTER  VIU. 

TEMPTATION. 


head  with  an  impatient  gesture  of  the  hand. 

'Why  should  this  Mr.  Marchmont  think  all  this 
of  me?'  she  said,  'when — '  She  stopped  ab- 
ruptly. 

'When— what,  Livy?' 

'When  other  people  don't  think  it.' 

'How  do  you  know  what  other  people  think? — 
You  haven't  asked  them,  I  suppose?* 

The  young  soldier  treated  his  cousin  in  very 
much  the  same  free-and-easy  manner  which  he 
displayed  toward  his  sister  Letitia.  It  would  have 
been  almost  difficult  for  him  to  recognize  anyde- 
srree  in  his  relationship  to  the  two  girls.  He  loved 
JiCtitia  better  than  Olivia;  but  his  affection  for 
both  was  of  exactly  the  same  character. 

Hubert  Arundel  came  into  the  garden,  wearied  Mii.  Ricuarp  Paulettl,  of  that  eminent  legal 
out,  like  his  daughter,  while  the  two  cousins  were  firm,  Paulelte,  Paulette,  and  Mathewson,  coming 
walking  under  ttie  shadow  of  the  neglected  ha-  to  Marchmont  Towers  on  business,  was  surprised 
Zeis.  He  declared  his  willingness  to  accept  the  to  behold  the  quiet  ease  with  which  the  sometime 
invitation  to  Marchmont  Towers,  and  promised  to  copying-clerk  received  the  punctilious  country 
answer  John's  ceremonious  ritlle  the  next  day.         gentry  who  came  to  sit  at  his  board  and  do  him 

'Cookson,  from   Kemberlin^i  will  be  there,  I    honor, 
suppose,'  he  said,  alluding  to  a  brother  parson.       Of  all  the   legal  fairy  tales,  of'all  tlie  parch- 
'and  the  usual  set?     Well,  I'll  come,  Ned,  if  you    meht-recorded   romances,   of  all   the  poetry  run 
wish  it.     You'd  like  to  go,  Olivia:'  into  affidavits,  in  which  the  solicitor  had  ever  been 

'If  you  like,  papa.'  concerned,  this  story  seemed  the  strangest.     Not 

There  was  a  *^uty  to  be  performed  now — the  so  very  strange  in  ii&elf,  for  such  romances  are 
duty  of  placid  obedience  to  her  father;  and  Miss  )  not  uncommon  in  the  history  of  a  lawyer's  expe- 
Arundel's  manner  changed  from  angry  impatience  i  rience;  but  strange  by  reason  of  the  tranquil  man- 
to  a  grave  respect.  She  owed  no  special  duty,  be  \  ner  in  which  John  Marchmont  accepted  his  new 
it  remembered,  to  her  cousin.  She  had  no  line  or  position,  and  did  the  honors  of  his  house  to  his 
rule  by  which  to  measure  her  conduct  to  him.       \  late  employer. 

She  stood  at  the  gate  nearly  an  hour  later,  and  |  'Ah,  Paulette,'  Edward  Arundel  said,  clappinj 
watched  the  young  man  ride  away  in  the  dim!  the  solicitor  on  the.  back,  '1  don't  suppose  you 
moonlight.  If  every  separate  tramp  of  his  horse's  .believed  me  when  I  told  you  that  my  friend  iTere 
hoofs  had  struck  upon  her  heart,  it  could  scarcely  was  heir-presumptive  to  a  handsome  fortune. i 
have  given  her  more  pain  than  she  felt  as  the  The  dinner-party  at  the  Towers  was  conducted 
sound  of  those  slow  footfalls_  died  away  in  the  i  with  that  stately  grandeur  peculiar  to  such  solem- 
distance.  nities.     There   was   the  usual  round  of  couotry- 

'Oh  my  God!'  she  cried,  'is  this  madness  to  talk  and  parish-talk;  the  hunting  squires  leading 
undo  all  that  I  have  done?  Is  this  folly  to  be  the  .the  former  section  of  the  discourse,  the  rectors 
climax  of  my  dismal  life?  Am  I  to  die  for  the  .  and  rectors'  wives  supporting  the  latter  part  of 
k)ve  of  a  frivolous,  fair-haired  boy,  who  laugh*, the  conversation.  You  heard  on  one  sido  that 
in  my  face  when  he  tells  me  tiiat  his  friend  has 'Martha  Harris's  husband  had  left  off  drinking,  and 
pleased  to  "take  a  fancy  to  me  ?"  '  i  attended  church  morning  and  evening;  and  on  the 

She  walked  away  toward  the  house;  then  stop-;  other,  that  the  old  gray  fox  that  ha'd  been  hunted 
ping,  with  a  sudden  shiver,  she  turned,  and  went:  nine  seasons  between  Crackbin  Bottom  and  HoJ- 
back  to  the  hazel-alley  she  had  paced  with  Ed- ' lowcraft  Gorse  had  perished  ignobly  in  the  poul- 
ward  Arundel.  )  try-yard  of  a  recusant  farmer.      While  your  left 

'Oh,  my  narrow  life  !'  she  muttered  between  >  ear  became  conscious  of  the  fact  that  little  Billy 
her  set  teeth ;  'my  narrow^  life  !  It  is  that  which  ;  Smithers  had  fallen  into  a  copper  of  scalding  wa- 
lias  made  me  the  slave  of  this  madness.  1  love  ;ter,  your  right  received  the  dismal  tidings  that  all 
him  because  he  is  the  brightest  and  fairest  thing  the  young  partridges  had  been  drowned  by  ih» 
I  have  ever  seen.  1  love  him  because  he  brings /rains  after  St.  Swithin,  and  that  there  were  hardly 
me  all  I  have  ever  known  of  a  more  beautiful  any  of  this  year's  birds,  Sir; 
world  than  that  I  live  in.  Bah  ?  why  do  I  reason  Mary  Marchmont  had  listened  to  gayer  talk  in 
with  myself?'  she  cried,  with  a  sudden  change  of  Oakley  Street  than  any  that  was  to  be  heard  that 
manner.     'I  love  him  because  I  am  mad.'  night  in  her  father's  drawing-rooms,  except  in 

She  paced  up  and  down  the  hazel-shaded  path-  deed  when  Edward  Arundel  left  off  flirting  >vii 
way  till  the  moonliglit  grew  broad  and  full,  and  .some  pretty  girls  in  blue,  and   hovered  near  ht 
every  ivy-grown  gable  of  the  Rectory  stood  sharp- /side  for  a  little  while,  quizzing  the  company.- 
ly  out  against  the  vivid  purple  of  the  sky.      She  /  Heaven  knows  the  young  soldier's  jokes  were  com 
paced  up  and  down,   trying  to  trample  the  folly /monplace  enough;  but  Mary  admired  him  as  thr 
within  her  under  her  feet  as  she  went;  a  fierce,;  most  brilliant  and  accomplished  of  wits. 
passionate,  impulsive  woman,  fighting  againat  her  ;     'How  do  you  like  my  cousin,  Polly?'  he  a.skt>d 
mad  love  for  a  bright-faced  boy.  at  last. 

'Two  years  older — only  two  years!'  she  said; r,     'Your  cousin,  Miss  Arundel  ?' 
'but  he  spoke  of  the  difference  between  us  as  if  it  ^     'Yes.' 
had  been  half  a  century.  And  then  I  am  so  clever,  >     'She  is  very  handsome.' 

that  1  seem  older  than  I  am;  and  he  is  afraid  of  >     'Yes,  I  suppose  so,'  the  young  man  answered, 
me!   Is  it  for  this  that  I  have  sat  night  aftcrnight/ carelessly.     'Every  body  «ay3  uiatLiivy'a  hanil- 


f}8 


JOHN  MARCHMONT'S  LEGACY. 


some:  but  it's  mthcr  a  cold  style  of  beauty,  isn't  'Not  if  it  was  to  grieve  you,  Polly,  I  dare  say,' 
it?    A  little  too  much  of  the  Pallas  Athene  about ;  Edward  answered,  soothingly.  . 

it  for  my  taste.  I  like  those  girls  in  blue,  with  '  He  had  been  dumbfounded  by  Mary*  passion- 
the  crinkly  auburn  hair — there's  a  touch  of  red  in  ate  .sorrow.  He  had  expected  that  she  would  have 
it  in  the  light — and  the  dimples.  You've  a  dim-  ^  been  rather  pleased  than  otherwise  at  the  idea  of 
pie,  Polly,  when  you  smile. '  •  |  a  young  step-mother — a  companion  in  those  vast 

Miss  Marchmont  blushed  as  she  received  tbis  ,  lonely  rooms,  an  instructress  and  a  friend  as  she 
informatiop,  and  her  soft  brown  eyes  wandered    grew  to  womanhood. 

away,  looking  very  earnestly  at  the  pretty  girls  in  j  'I  was  only  talking  nonsense,  Polly  darling,' he 
blue.  She  looked  at  them  with  a  strange  inter-  said.  'You  mustn't  make  yourself  unhappy  about 
est,  ea^-er  to  discover  what  it  was  that  Edward  j  any  absurd  fancies  of  mine.  I  think  your  papa 
admired.  i  admires  my  cousin  Olivia,  and  I  thought,  perhaps, 

'But  you  haven't  answesred  my  question,  Polly,'    you'd  be  glad  to  have  a  step-mother. ' 
said  Mr.   Arundel.      'I  am  afraid  you  have  been        'Glad  to  have  any  one  who  would  take  papa's 
drinking  too  much  wine,  Miss  Marchmont,  and    Jove  away  from  mer'  Mary  said,  plaintively. — 
muddling  that  sober  little  head  of  yours  with  the    'Oh,  Mr.  Arundel,  how  could  you  think  so?' 
fumes   of  your  papa's  tawny  port.     I  asked  you        In  all  their  familiarity  the  little  girl  had  never 
how  you  liked  Olivia.'  learned  to  call  her  father's  friend  by  his  Christian 

Mary  blushed  again.  name,  though  he  had  often  told  her  to  do  so.   Slie 

'I  don't  know  Miss  Arundel  well  enough  to  like  trembled  to  pronounce  that  simple  Saxon  name, 
her — ^jet,'  she  answered,  timidly.  •      which  was  so  beautiful  and  wonderful  because  it 

'But  shall  you  like  her  when  you've  known  her  was  his;  but  whenj^he  read  a  very  stupid  n'ovel, 
longer?  Don't  be  Jesuitical,  Polly.  Likings  and  in  which  the  heroo^^as,  a  namesake  of  iNIr.  Arun- 
disUkings  are  instantaneous  and  instinctive.  I ;  del's,  the  vapid  pages  seemed  to  be  phosphores- 
liked  you  before  IW  ^aten  half  a  dozen  mouthfuls  :  cent  with  light  whenever  the  name  appeared  upon 
of  the  roll  you  buttered  far  me  at  that  breakfast    them. 

"  "      ''      '  •      .    »  -    •  ,      ,  ,     ]VJarchmont  lingered 

.  heard  her  praises 


in  Oakley  Street,  Polly.  You  don't  like  my  cousin    '    I  scarcely  know  why  John  Mat 
Olivia,  Miss;  I  can  see  that  very  plainly.    You're  ;  by  Miss  Arundel's  chair.  He  had  i 


jealous  of  her.' 

'Jealous  of  her '.' 

The   bright  color   faded   out  of  Mary  March 
mont's  face,  and  left  her  ashy  pale. 

'Do  you  like  her,  then  ?'  she  asked. 


from  every  one.  She  was  a  paj^igon  of  goodnes; 
an  uncan'onized  saint,  ever  sacrificing  herself  for 
the  benefit  of  others.  .  Perhaps  he  v.as  thinking 
that  such  a  woman  as  this  would  be  the  best  friend 
he  could  win  for  his  little  girl.  He  turned  from 
But  Mr.  Arundel  wa^not  such  a  coxcomb  as  to  ;  the  county  matrons,  the  tender,  kindly,  motherly 

catch  at  the  secret  so  naively  betrayed   in  that ;  creatures,   who   would  have  been  ready  to  take 

breathless  question.  little  Mary  to   the  loving  shelter  of  their  arms, 

'IJfo,  Polly,'  he  said,  laugirmg;  'she's  my  cousin,    and  looked  to  Olivia  Arundel — this  cold,  perfect 

you  know,  and  I've  knov/n  her   all  my  life;  and   .benefactress   of  tlie  poor — for  help  in  his  diih- 

couiins  are  like  sisters.      One  likes  to  tease  and    culty 


She  who  is  so  good  to  all  her  father's  parish- 
ioners, could  not  refuse  to  be  kind  to  my  poor 
Mary,'  he  thought. 

But  how  was  he  to  win  this  woman's  friendshijt 
for  his  darling?  He  asked  himself  this  question 
even  in  the  midst  of  the  frivolous  people  about 
him',  and  with  the  buzz  of  their  conversatioif  in 
his  ears.     He  was  perpetually  tormenting  himself 


aggravate  them,  and  all  that;  but  one  doesn't  fall 
in  love  with  them.  But  1  think  1  could  mention 
somebody  who  thinks  a  great  deal  of  Olivia.' 

'Who  ?■'  ^ 

'Your  papa.' 

JMary  lookdd  at  the  young  sold  iciJVn  utter  bewil- 
derment. 

'Papa'.'  she  echoed. 

'Yes,  Polly.  How  would  you  like  a  stcpmamma?  about  the  future  of  his  darling,  which  seemed 
How  would  you  like  your.papa  to  marry  again  ?'    more  dimly,  perplexing  now  than  it  had  ever  ap- 

Mary  Marchmont  started  to  her  feet  as  if  she  ]  peared  in  Oakley  Street,  when  the  Lincolnshire 
w'ould  have  gone  to  her  father  in  the  midst  of  all  '  property  was  a  far-away  dream,  never  to  be  re- 
those  spectators.  John  was  standing  near  Olivia  '  alized.  He  felt  that  his  brief  lease  of  life  was 
and  her  father,  talking  to  them,  and  playing  ner-  j  running  out;  he  felt  as  if  he  and  Mary  had  been 
vously  with  his  slender  watch-chain  v/hen  he  ad-  [  standing  upon  a  narrow  track  of  yellow  sand,  very 
dressed  the  young  lady.  <  bright,  very  pleasant  under  the  sunshine,  but  with 

'My  papa— marry  again  !'  gasped  Mary.  'How  •  the  slow-coming  tide  rising  like  a  wall  about 
dare  you  say  such  a  thing,  Mr.  Arundel)'  Uhem,   and   creepmg   stealthily  onward  to  over- 

Her  childish  devotion  to  her  father  arose  in  all  j  "^^SS/^mTght  gather  bright-colored  shells  and 
its  force;  a  flood  of  passionate  emotion  that  over-  sea-weed  in  her  childish   icnorance-  but  he 

whelmed   her  senhtive  nature.     Marry  again  !;  ^«t^^„^^;7,Vl^h^^^ 

marry  a  woman  who  would  separate  h^^^^^  ^t  heart  with  the  dull  hon-or  of  that 

onlv  child  !      Could  he  ever  dream  for  one  brief )  \^^^^^^-       joom.      If  the  black  waters'had  been 


only  child ' 

moment  of  such  a  horrible  cruelty  i  ^  ,  ^^^^^^  ^^  ^j^^^  ^^,^^  ^j^^^  ^^^^j^^  ^1^^  ^^^^^^,  ^.^^^ 

She  looked  at  Olivia's  sternly  handsome  face  have  been  content  to  go  down  under  the  sullen 
and  trembled.  She  could  almost  picture  that  very  '  ^aves,  with  his  daughter  clasped  to  his  breast, 
woman  standing  between  her  and  her  father,  and  ;  gy^  n  ^as  not  to  be  so.  He  was  to  sink  in  that 
putting  her  away  from  him.  Her  indignation  )  unknown  stream,  while  she  was  left  upon  the  tem- 
quickly  melted  into  grief,  indignation,  however  {  pest-tossed  surface,  to  be  beaten  hither  and  thither, 
intense,  was  always  short-lived  in  that  gentle  na-  i  feebly  battling  with  the  stormy  billows. 
tare.  >     Could  John  Marchmont  be  a' Christian,  and  yet 

'Oh,  Mr.  Arundel  1'  she  said,piteously,  apppal-  \  feel  this  horrible  dread  of  the  death  which  must 
ing  to  the  young  man;,  'papa  would  never,  never,  J  separate  him  from  his  daughter?  I  fear  this  frail, 
ucycr  marry  again— weuld  he?'  '  consumptiTe  widower  loved  his  child  with  an  in- 


JOHN  MAllCHMONT'S  LEGACY. 


^y 


tensity  of  afTcction  that  is  scarcely  reconcilable 
with  Christianity.  Such  great  passions  as  these 
must  be  put  away  before  the  cross  can  be  taken 
up  and  the  troublesome  path  followed.  In  all  love 
and  kindness  toward  his  fellow-creatures,  in  all 
patient  endurance  of  the  pains  and  troubles  that 
befell  himself,  it  would  liavc  been  diflicult  to  find  a 
more  single-hearted  follower  of  Gospel  teaching 
than  John  Marchmont;  but  in  his  all'ection  for  his 
motherless  child  he  was  a  very  pagan.  He  set  up 
an  idol  for  himself,  and  bowed  himself  before  it. 
Doubtful  and  fearful  of  the  future,  he  looked 
hopelessly  forward.  He  could  not  trust  his  orphan 
child  into  the  hands  of  vGod,  and  drop  away  him- 
self into  the  fathomless  darkness,  serene  in  tiie 
belief  that  she  would  be  cared  for  and  protected. 
No;  he  could  not  trust.  He  could  be  faithful  for 
himself;  simple  and  confiding  as  a  child;  but  not 
for  her.  He  saw  the  gloomy  rocks  lowering  black 
in  the  distance;  the  pitiless  waves  beating  far 
away  yonder,  impatient  to  devour  the  frail  boat 
that  was  so  soon  to  be  left  alone  upon  the  waters. 
In  the  thick  darkness  of  the  future  he  could  see 
no  ray  of  light,  except  one — a  new  hope  that  had 
lately  risen  in  his  mind;  the  hope  of  winning 
■some  noble  and  perfect  woman  to  be  the  future 
friend  of  his  daughter. 

The  days  were  past  in  which,  in  his  simplicity, 
ho  had  looked  to  Edward  Arundel  as  the  future 
shelter  of  his  child.  The  generous  boy  had  grown 
into  a  stylish  young  man,  a  soldier,  whose  duty 
lay  faraway  from  Marchmont  Towers.  No;  it 
was  to  a  good  woman's  guardianship  the  father 
must  leave  his  child. 

Thus  the  very  intensity  of  his  love  was  the  one 
motive  which  led  John  Marchmont  to  contemplate 
the  step  that  Mary  thought  such  a  cruel  and  bitter 
wrong  to  her. 

It  was  not  till  long  after  the  dinner-party  at 
Marchmont  Towers  that  these  ideas  resolved 
Ihemselves  into  any  positive  form,  and  that  John 
began  to  think  that  lor  his  daughter's  sake  he 
might  be  led  to  contemplate  a  second  marriage. 
Edward  Arundel  had  spoken  the  truth  when  he 
told  his  cousin  that  John  Marchmont  hid  repeat- 
«:dly  mentioned  her  name;  but  the  careless  and 
impulsive  young  man  had  be  en  utterly  unable  to 
fathom  the  feeling  lurking  in  his  friend's  mind. 
It  was  not  Olivia  Arundel's  handsonie  face  which 
had  won  John's  admiration;  it  was  the  constant 
reiteration  of  her  praises  upon  every  side  which 
had  led  him  to  believe  that  thi.s  woman,  of  all 
others,  was  the  one  whom  be  should  win  to  be  his 
child's  friend  and  guardw.n  in  the  dark  days  that 
were  to  come. 

The  knowledge  that  Oli.via's  intellect  was  of  no 
common  order,  together  with  the  somewhat  im- 
perious dignity  of  her  manner,  strengthened  this 
Itelief  in  John  Marchmont's  mind.  It  wa^  not  a 
good  woman  only  whom  b.e  must  seek  in  the  friend 
he  needed  for  his  child;  jt  was  a  woman  powerful 
enough  to  shield  her  in  thic  lonely  path  she  would 
have  to  tread;  a  woman  strong  enough  to  help 
her,  perhaps,  by-and-by,  to  do  battle  with  Paul 
Marchmont. 

So,  in  the  blind  paganism  of  his  love,  John  re- 
fused to  trust  his  child  into  the  hands  of  Provi- 
dence, and  chose  for  himself  a  friend  and  guar- 
dian who  should  shelter  Viis  darling.  He  made  his 
choice  with  so  much  deliberation,  and  after  such 
long  nights  and  days  of  earnest  thouglit,  that  he 
may  be  forgiven  if  ho  believed  he  had  chosen 
wisely. 


Thus  it  was  that  in  the  dark  November  days, 
while  Edward  and  Mary  played  chess  by  the  wide 
fire-place  in  the  western  drawing-room,  or  ball 
in  the  newly-erected  tennis-court,  John  March- 
mont sat  in  his  study  examining  his  papers,  and 
calculating  the  amount  of  money  at  his  own  dis- 
posal, in  serious  contemplation  of  a  second  mar- 
riage. 

Did  he  love  Olivia  Arundel .-  No.  He  admired 
her  and  respected  her,  and  he  firmly  believed  her 
to  be  the  most  perfect  of  women.  No  impulse 
had  prompted  the  step  he  contemplated  taking. 
He  had  loved  his  first  wife  truly  and  tenderly, 
but  he  had  never  sull'ered  very  acutely  from  any 
of  those  torturing  emotions  which  form  the  sev- 
eral stages  of»tlie  great  tragedy  called  Love. 

But  had  he  ever  thought  of  the  likelihood  of  his 
deliberate  olFer  being  rejected  by  the  young  lady 
v/ho  had  been  the  object  of  such  careful  consid- 
eration ?  Yes;  ho  had  thought  of  this,  and  was 
prepared  to  abide  the  issue.  He  should,  at  least, 
have  tried  his  uttermost  to  secure  a  friend  for  hi-> 
darling. 

With  such  unloverliko  feelings  as  these  the 
ov/ner  of  Marchmont  Towers  drove  into  Swamp- 
ington  one  morning,  deliberately  bent  upon  offer- 
ing Olivia  Arundel  his  hand.  He  had  consulted 
with  his  land-steward,  and  with  Messrs.  Pauleltc, 
and  had  ascertained  how  far  he  could  endow  his 
bride  with  the  goods  of  this  world.  It  was  not 
much  that  he  could  give  her,  for  the  estate  was 
strictly  entailed,  but  there  would  be  his  own 
saviligs  for  the  brief  term  of  his  life,  and  if  he 
lived  only  a  few  years  these  savings  might  accu- 
mulate to  a  considerable  amount,  so  limited  were 
the  expenses  of  the  quiet  Lincolnshire  household; 
and  there  was  a  bum  of  money,  something  over 
nine  thousand  pounds,  left  him  iDy  Philip  March- 
,  mont,  senior.  He  had  something,  then,  to  oH'er 
to  the  woman  he  sought  to  make  his  wife,  and, 
above  all,  he  had  a  supreme  belief  in  01ivi;i 
Arundel's  utter  disinterestedness.  He  had  seen 
her  frequently  since  the  dinner-p;^"ty,  and  had 
always  seen. her  the  same — grave,  reserved,  dip, 
uified;  patiently  employed  in  the  strict  perform 
ance  of  her  duty.' 

He  found  Miss  Arundel  sitting  in  her  father';* 
.  study,  busily  cutting  out  coarse  garments  for  the  , 
poor.     A  newly-written  sermon  lay  open  on  the 
;  table.     Had  Mr.  Marchmont  looked  closely  at  the 
manuscript,  he  would  have  seen  that  the  ink  was 
,  wet  and  that  tlic  writing  was  Olivia's.    It  was  a 
relief  to   this  strange   woman   to  write  sermons 
sometimes — fierce  ^denunciatory  protests  against 
the  inherent  wickedness  of  the  human  heart.  Can 
you  imagine  a  woman  with  a  wicked  heart  stead- 
fastly trying  lo  do  good,  and  to  be  good  .-     It  is  a 
dark  and  horrible  picture,  but  it  is  the  only  true 
;  picture  of  the  woman   whom   .John  Marchmont 
sought  to  win  for  his  wife. 

The  interview  between  Mary's  father  and  Olivia 
Arundel  was  not  a  very  sentimental  one,  but  it 
WHS  certainly  the  very  reverse  of  common-place. 
;  John  was  too  simple-hijarted   to  disguise  the  pur- 
pose of  his   wooing.      He  pleaded  not  for  a  wife 
I  for  himscjf,  but  a  mother  for  his  orphan  child. 
He  talked   of  Mary's  helplessness  in  the  future, 
:  not  of  his  own  love  in  the  present.    Carried  av/ay 
\  by  the  egotism  of  his  one  affection,  he  let  his  mo- 
tives appear  in  all  their  nakedness.      He   spoke 
,  long   and   earnestly;  he  spoke  until  the  blinding 
tears  in  his  eyes  made  the  face  of  her  he  looked 
at  seem  blotted  and  dim. 
Miss  Arundel  watched  liim   as  he  pleaded  ; 


3U 

sternly,  uuHinchingly.  But  she  uttered  no  word 
until  he  had  finished;  and  then,  rising  suddenly, 
with  a  dusky  flush  upon  her  face,  she  began  to 
pace  up  and  down  the  narrow  room.  She  had  for- 
gotten Jolin  Marchmont.  In  the  strength  and 
vigor  of  her  intellect  this  weak-minded  widower, 
whose  one  passion  was  a  pitiful  love  for  his  child, 
appeared  so  utterly  insignificant  that  for  a  few 
moments  she' had  forgotten  his  presence  in  that 
room — his  very  existence,  perhaps.  She  turned 
to  him  presently,  and  looked  him  full  in  the  face. 

'You  do  not  love  me,  Mr.  Marchmont  ?'  she 
said.  .  ,      ,    ,. 

'Pardon  me,'  John  stammered;  'believe  me, 
Miss  Arundel,  I  respect,  I  esteem  you  so  much, 
that—'  ,  .     ^  ^ 

'That  you  choose  me  as  a  fitting  friend  for  your 
child.  1  understand.  I  am  not  the  sort  of  wo- 
man to  be  loved.  I  have  long  comprehended  that. 
My  cousin  Edward  Arundel  has  often  taken  the 
trouble  to  tell  me  as  much.  And  you  wish  me  to 
be  your  wife  in  order  that  you  may  have  a  guar- 
dian for  your  child.?  It  is  very  much  the  "same 
thing  as  engaging  a  governess;  only  the  engage- 
ment is  to  be  more  binding. ' 

'Miss  Arundel,'  exclaimed  John  Marchmont. 
'forgive  me!  You  misunderstand  me;  indeed  you 
do.      Had  I  thought  that  I  could  have  offended 

you—' ,  ,         I  . 

'I  am  not  offended.  You  have  spoken  the  truth 
where  another  man  would  have  told  a  lie.  1  ought 
to  be  flattered  by  your  confidence  in  me.  It  pleases 
me  that  people  should  think  me  good,  and  worthy 
of  their  trust. ' 

She  broke  into  a  weary  sigh  as  she  finished 
speaking. 

'And  you  will  not  reject  my  appeal  r    • 

'I  scarcely  know  what  to  do,'  answered  Olivia, 
pressing  her  hand  to  her  forehead. 

She  leaned  against  the  angle  of  the  deep  case- 
ment window,  looking  out  at  the  bleak  garden, 
desolate  and  neglected  in  the  black  winter  weather. 
She  was  silent  for  some  minutes.  John  March- 
mont did  not  interrupt  her;  he  was  content  to  wait 
patiently  until  she  should  choose  to  speak. 

'Mr.  Marchmont,'  she  said  at  last,  turning  upon 
poor  John  with  an  abrupt  vehemence  that  almost 
startled  him,  'I  am  three-and-twenty;  and  in  the 
long,  dull  memory  of  the  three-and-twenty  years 
that  have  made  ray  life  I  can  not  look  back  upon 
one  joy — no,  so  heip  me  Heaven,  not  one  !' she 
cried  passionately,  lifting  her  hand  toward  the 
low  ceiling  as  she  spoke.  No  prisoner  in  the  Bas- 
tile,  shut  in  a  cell  below  the  level  of  the  Seine, 
and  making  companions  of  rats  and  spiders  in  his 
misery,  ever  led  a  life  more  hopelessly  narrow, 
more  pitifully  circumscribed  than  mine  has  been. 
These  grass-grown  streets  have  made  the  bound- 
ary of  my  existence.  The  flat  fenny  country 
round  me  is  not  flatter  or  more  dismal  than  my 
life-  You  will  say  that  I  should  take  an  interest 
in  tiie  duties  which  I  do;  and  that  they  should  be 
enough  for  mc.  Heaven  knows  1  have  tried  to  do 
so-  but  my  life  is  hard.  Do  you  think  there  has 
been  nothing  in  all  this^o  warp  my  nature?  Do 
you'think,  after  hearing  this,  that  I  am  the  wo- 
man to  be  a  second  mother  to  your  ohildr' 
.  She  sat  down  as  she  finished  speaking,  and  her 
hands  dropped  listlessly  in  her  lap.  The  unquiet 
spirit  raging  in  her  breast  had  been  stronger  than 
herself,  and  had  spoken.  She  had  lifted  the  dull 
veil  through  which  the  outer  world  beheld  her, 
and  had  shown  John  Marchmont  her  natural  face. 
»I  think  you  are  a  good  woman,  Miss  Arundel,' 


JOHN  MARCHMONT'S^LEGAGY. 


'  he  said,  earnestly,      'hi  had  thought  otherwise, 

il  should  not  have  come  here  to-day.      I  want  a 

good  woman  to  be  kind  to  my  child;  kind  to  her 

v/hen  I  am  dead  and  gone;'  he  added,  in  a  lower 

voice. 

Olivia  Arundel  sat  silent  and  motionless,  look- 
ing straight  before  her  out  into  the  black  dullness 
of  the  garden.     She  was  trying  to  think  out  the 
'  dark  problem  of  her  life. 

Strange  as  it  may  seem,   there  was  a  certain 
;  fascination  for  her  in   John  Marchmont 's  offer. 
He   offered  her  something,   no   matter  what,  it 
would  be  a  change.    She  had  compared  herself  to 
a  prisoner  in  the  Bastile;  and  1  think  she  felt  very 
;  much  as  such  a  prisoner  might  have  felt  upon  hiM 
jailer's  offering  to  remove  him  to  Vincennes.  The 
,  new  prison  might  be  worse  than  the  old  one,  per- 
haps; but  it  would  be  different.      Life  at  March- 
'  mont   Towers  might  be  more  monotonous,  more 
:  desolate  than  at  Swampington;  but  it  would  be  a 
new  monotony,  another  desolation.      Have  you 
:  never  felt,  when  suffering  the  hideous  throes  of 
\  toothache,  that  it  would  be  a  relief  to  have  the 
earache  or  the  rheumatism — that  variety  even  in 
'  torture  would  be  agreeable  ? 

Then  again,  Olivia  Arundel,  though  unblessed 
'  with  many  of  the  charmsof  womanhood,  was  not 
')  entirely  without  its  weaknesses.  To  marry  John 
i  Marchmont  would  be  to  avenge  herself  upon  Ed- 
'  ward  Arundel.  Alas  !  she  forgot  how  impossible 
\  it  is  to  inflict  a  dagger-thrust  upon  him  who  is 
'  guarded  by  the  impenetrable  armor  of  indifler- 
;  encc.  She  saw  herself  the  mistress  of  March: 
;  mont  Tovv^ers,  waited  upon  by  liveried  servants, 
courted,  not  patronized,  by  the  country  gentry, 

■  avenged  upon  the  mercenary  aunt  who  had  slighted 
her,  who  had  bade  her  go  out  and  get  her  living 

(  as  a  nursery  governess.      She   saw   this;  and  all 
;  that  was  ignoble  in  her  nature  arose,  and  urged 
her  to   snatch  the  chance  offered  her — the  one 
f  chance   of  lifting   herself  out  of  the  horrible  ob- 
scurity of  her  life.      The  ambition  which  might 
\  have  made  her  an  empress  lowered  its  crest,  and 
cried,  'Take  this;  at  least  it  is  something. '    But 
;  through  all  the  better  voices  which  she  had  en- 
'  listed  to  do  battle   with   the  natural  voice  of  her 
soul  cried  'This  is  a  temptation  of  the  devil;  put 
;  it  away  from  thee  !' 

:  But  this  temptation  came  to  her  at  the  very  mo- 
;  mcnt  when  her  life  had  become  most  intolerable; 
'  too  intolerable  to  be  borne,  she  thought.  She 
;  knew  now,  fatally,  certainly,  that  Edward  Arun- 
)  del  did  not  love  her;  that  the  one  only  day-dream 
'  she  had  ever  made  for  herself  had  been  a  snare 
'  apd  a  delusion.      That  one  dream  had  been  the 

■  single  light  of  her  life.  That  taken  away  from 
;  her,  the  darkness  was  blacker  than  the  blackness 
!  of  death;  more  horrible  than  the  obscurity  of  the 
;  grave. 

In  all  the  future  she  had  not  one  hope;  no,  not 
(  one.  She  had  loved  Edward  Arundel  with  all 
( the  strength  of  her  soul;  she  had  wasted  a  world 
}  of  intellect  and  passion  upon  this  bright-haired  . 
^  boy.  This  foolish,  groveling  madness  bad  been 
i  the  blight  of  her  life.  i3ut  for  this  she  might  have 
.  grown  out  of  her  natural  self  by  force  of  her 
;  conscientious  desire  to  do  right,  and  might  have 
>  become,  indeed,  a  good  and  perfect  woman.  If 
I  her  life  had  been  a  wider  one,  this  wasted  love 
j  would  perhaps  have  shrunk  into  its  proper  insig- 
s  nificance;  she  would  have  loved,  and  suffered, 
J  and  recovered,  as  so  many  of  us  recover  from 
I  this  foolish  epidemic.  But  all  the  volcanic  forces 
^of  an  impetuous  naturei  concentrated  into  one 


JOHN  MARCHMONT'S  LEGACY.  31 

narrow  focus,  wasted  themselves  upon  this  one^  'Will  you  be  sorry  when  I  am  married,  Rl - 
feeling,  until  what  should  have  been  a  sentiment ;  ward  Arundel  r'  she  murmured;  'will  you  he 
became  a  madness.  ;; sorry. 

To  think  that   in  some  far-away  future  time  /  ^^^ , 

she  might  cease   to   love  Edward  Arundel,  and  \ 

learn  to  love  somebody  else,  would  have  seemed  prp^D  ty 

about  as  reasonable  to  Olivia  as  to  hope  that  she  ;■  CHAr  IhK,  1\. 

could  have  new  legs  and  arms  in  that  distant  •     .^^jj^.^^  ^^^j^^  i  ceask  to   be   am,  Ai.oyjr..-'- 
lime.     She  could  cut  away  this  fatal  passion  with  - 

a  desperate  stroke,  it  maybe,  just  as  she  could  ^  Hubert  Arundei,  was  not  so  much  surprised 
cut  off  her  arm;  but  to  believe  that  a  new  love  /  as  might  have  been  anticipated  at  the  proposal 
would  grow  in  its  place  was  quite  as  absurd  as  to  /  made  him  by  his  wealthy  neighbor.  Edward 
believe  in  the  growing  of  a  new  arm.  Some ;;  Arundel  .had  prepared  his  uncle  for  the  possi- 
cork  montrosity  might  replace  the  amputated  ^  bility  of  such  a  proposal  by  sundry  jocose  allu- 
limb;  some  sham  aii^d  simulated  affection  might ;:  sions  and  arch  hints  upon  the  subject  of  John 
succeed  the  old  love.  /  Marchmont's  admiration  for  Olivia.    The  frank 

Olivia  Arundel  thought  of  all  these  things  in  i]  and  rather  frivolous  joung  man  thought  it  >yas 
about  ten  minutes,  by  the  little  skeleton  clock  :  l>>s  cousin's  l>andsome  face  that  had  captivated 
upon  the  mantle-peee,  and  while  John  March- :  the  master  of  Marchmont  Towers  and  w^^^^^^^^ 
mont  waited  very  patiently  for  some  definite  an- >  unable  to  fa  horn  the  hidden  motne  underlying 
swcr'to  his  appeil.  Iler  mind  came  back  at  s  all  Johns  talk  about  Miss  ArundeK^  ^  ^^ 
last,  after  all  its  passionate  wanderings,  to  the  ■,  ^he  Rector  of  Swampington  being  a  s.mp^^^^^^ 
rigid  channel  she  had  so  laboriously  woni  for  it-  hearted  and  not  ;.e'-y  /^/'^^f  "?  . 7"'  ^^Ji^f 
the  narrow  groove  of  duty.  Ilcr  first  words  tes-  «od  heartily  for  the  chance  that  had  befalle, 
iifipfl  fhU  "J      ^  ;  his  daughter.  She  would  be  well  off  and  well  cared 

tmeaims.  ■  for,  then,  by  the  mercy  of  Providence,  in  spite 

'If  I  accept  this  responsibility  I  will  perform  ^f  ^j^  ^^j,  shortcomings,  which  had  left  her  with 
it  faithfully,' she  said;  rather  to  herself  than  to  ,;  ^^  ^,p^^p^.  pro^^^jsion  for  the  future  than  a  pitiful 
Mr.  Marchmont.  ;  poij^y  upon  her  father's  life.     She  would  be  well 

'I  am  sure  you  will,  Miss  Arundd,'  John  an-,  provided  for  henceforward,  and  would  live  in  u 
swered,  eagerly;  'I  am  sure  you  will.  You  mean  ;:  handsome  house;  and  all  those  noble  qualities 
to  undertake  it,  then  r  you  mean  to  consider  my  ;•  which  had  been  dwarfed  and  crippled  in  a  nar- 
offer.-"  May  I  speak  to  your  father  .•'  may  1  tell  %  row  sphere  would  now  expand,  and  display  them- 
him  that  1  have  spoken  to  you  r  may  1  say  that ;  selves  in  unlooked-for  grandeur, 
you  have  given  me  a  hope  of  your  ultimate  con- s  'People  have  called  her  a  good  girl,'  he 
sent?'  ;•  thought;   'but  how   could  they  ever  know  her 

'Yes,  yes,'  Olivia  said,  rather  impatiently;' goodness,  unless  they  had  seen,  as  I  have,  the 
•speak  to  my  father;  tell  him  any  thing  you  ;  horrible  deprivations  she  has  borne  so  uncom- 
please.     Let  him  decide  for  me;  it  is  my  duty  to  :plainingly? 

obey  him.'  "  John  Marchmont,  being  newly  instructed  by 

mu  .       ui  J-      •    41  •       'M-   •      his  lawver,  was  able  to  give  Mr.  Arundel  a  very 

There  was  a  terrible  cowardice  m  this.  Ohvia  ;  ^  ^^^ement  of  the  p^rovision  be  could  make 
Arundel  shrank  from   marrying  a  ^an  she  dm  ;  ^  ,    ^  'J,^  could  settle  upon  her 

not  love,  prompted  by  no  better  desire  than    he  ,  «  ^      ^^„j^   ,^fj   ^i^    by'phillip 

mad  wish  to  wrench  herself  away  from  her  haled  ;  ^j^,,,,^,ont.     He  would  alrt,w  her  five  hundre.l 
life      She  wanted  to  fling   he  burden  of  respon-;  pj^.n^oney  during  his  lifetime;  he  woul.l 

s.bility  in  this  matter  away  Irom  her.  Letanother    f  J      J   ^^.    ^J       ^^°,,i^  ^^^,^    ^^^  he  would 
decide;  let  another   urge  her  to  do  this  wrong;  ^^^^S-  his  life  for  her  benelh. 

and  let  tbe  wrong  be  called  a  sacrifice.  ;  ^^^  ^^^^^,^^  ^^.  ^hes?"  savings  would,  of  course. 

So  for  the  first  time  she   set  to  work  delib- ^(^epend  upon  the    length    of  .John's  life;  but  the 
erately  to  cheat  her  own  conscience.   For  the  firsi '  jnopgy  would   accumulate   very   quickly,  as  his 
time  she  put  a  false  mark  upon  the  standard  she    income  was  eleven  thousand  a  year,  and  his  ex- 
had  made   for  the   measurement   of  her  moral '  pciditure  was  not  likely  to  exceed  three, 
progress.  T^g    Swampington    living    was    worth    little 

She  sank  into  a  crouching  altitude  on  a  low  '  ^ore  than  three  hundred  and  fifty  pounds  a 
stool  by  the  fire-place,  in  utter  prostj-ation  lol  ..gar;  and  out  of  that  sum  Hubert  Arundel  and 
body  and  mind,  when  John  Marchmont  had  left  1,^  daughter  had  done  treble  as  much  good  for 
her.  She  let  her  weary  head  fall  heavily  against  the  numcrous'poor  of  the  parish  as  ever  had  been 
the  carved  oaken  shall  that  supported  the  old- ,  gphieved  by  any  previous  Kector  or  his  family, 
fashioned  mantle-piece,  lieedless  that  her  brow  /  Hubert  and  his  daughter  bad  patiently  endured 
struck  sharply  against  the  corner  of  tlie  wood-!  the  most  grinding  poverty,  the  burden  ever  fall- 
work.  /  i„g  heavi(!r  on  Olivia,  who  had  the  heroic  facifllv 
If  she  could  have  died  then,  with  no  more  sin-,  of  endurance  as  regards  all  physical  di-^cnin' 
ful  secret  than  a  woman's  natural  weakness  hid- 'fort.  Cm  it  be  wondered,  then,  that  Ihe  Hrc 
den  in  her  breast— if  she  could  have  died  then,  |  tor  of  Swampington  thought  the  prospect  oflered 
while  yet  the  first  step  upon  lla-  dark  pathway  to  his  child  a  very  brilliant  one?  Can  it  be  won 
of  her  life  was  untrodden— how  happy  for  her-/(jpred  that  he  urged  his  daughter  to  accept  this 
self,  how  happy  for  others!     How  nuserable  a  ^  jiiered  lot? 

record  of  sin  and  suffering  might  have  remained  i      He  did  urge  her,  pleading  John  Marchmonl's 
unwritten  in  the  history  of  v,om:iii's  life!  cause'a  great  deal   more  warmly  than  the  wid- 

iower  had  himself  plesded. 
She  sat  long  in  the  same  altitude.     Once,  and  <      <My  darling,'  he  sairl,  'my  darling  girl!  if  I 
once  only,  two  solitary  tears  arose   in  herejcs,  jean   live   to    see  you    mistress    of   Marchmont 
aad  rolled  slowly  down  her  pale  cheeks.  I  Towers,  1  shall  go  to  my  grave  contented  and 


32  JOHN  MARCHMONT'S  LEGACY. 

happy.  Think,  ni)'  dear,  of  the  misery  this  mar-j'  wafched  you,  my  love,  and  I  know  you  have  not 
riage  will  save  you  from.  Oh,  my  dear  girl,  l[  been  happy.  But  that  is  not  strange.  This  place 
can  tell  you  now  vi'hat  I  never  dared  tell  you  be- ;  is  so  dull,  and  your  life  has  been  so  fatiguing. 
ft)re;  1  can  tell  you  of  the  long,  sleepless  nights  iHow  different  that  ,wou]d  all  be  at  Marchmont 
I  have  passed  thinking  of  you,  and  of  the  -wicked  J  Towers  !' 

wrongs  I  have  done  you.  Not  willful  wrongs,  (  'You  wish  me  to  marry  Mr.  Marchmont,  then, 
my  love,'  the  Rector  added,  with  tears  gather- 1  papa?' 

ing  in  his  eyes;  'for  you  know  how  dearly  I  have       'I  do,  indeed,   my  love.     For  your  own  sake, 
always  joyed  you.     But  a  father's  responsibility  \  of  course,'  the  Rector  added,  deprecatingly. 
toward    his    children   is   a  very   heavy   burden.!      'You  really  wish  it?' 
I've  only   looked   at  it   in   Ibis   light   lately,  my '  "^ 'Very,  very  much,  my  dear.' 
dear— now  that  I've   let  the  time  slip  by,  and  |      'Then  I  will  marry  him,  papa." 
it  is  too  late  to  redeem  the  past.     I've  suffered  !      She  took  her  hand  from  the  Rector's  shoulder, 
very  much,  Olivia;  and   all   this  has  seemed  to  |  and  walked  away  from  him  to  the  uncurtained 
separate  us,  somehow.   But  that's  past  now,  isn't ,  window,  against  which  she  stood  wilh  her  back- 
it,  my  dear?  and  you'll  marry  this  Mr.  March-)  to  her  father,  looking  cut  into  the  gray  obscurity, 
mont.     He  seems  to  be  a  very  good,  conscien- '      1  have  said   that  Hubert  Arundel  was  not  a 
tious  man,  and  1  think  he'll  make  you  happy.'       /  very  clever  or  far-seeing  person;  but  he  vaguely 

The  father  and  daughter  were,  sitting  together  ;  felt  that  this  was  not  exactly  the  way  in  which 
after  dinner  in  the  dusky  November  tv/ilight, '- a  brilliant  offer  of  marriage  should  be  accepted 
the  room  only  lighted  by  the  fire,  which  was  j  by  a  young  lady  who  was  entirely  fancy-free,  and 
low  and  dim.  Hubert  Arundel  could  not  see  ^  he  had  an  uncomfortable  apprehension  that  there 
his  daughter's  face  as  he  talked  to  her;  he  could  pvas  something  hidden  under  his  daughter's  quiet 
only  see  the  black  outline  of  her  figure  sharply ;;  manner. 

delined  against  the  gray  window  behind  her,  as;;  'But,  my  dear  Olivia,'  he  said,  nervously, 
she  sat  opposite  to  him.  He  could  see  by  her  J; 'you  must  not  for  a  moment  suppose  that  I 
attitude  that  she  was  listening  to  him,  with  her;;  would  force  you  into  this  marriage,  if  it  is  in 
head  drooping  and  her  hands  lying  idle  in  her;;  any  way  repugnant  to  yourself.  You— you  may 
lap.  ■  _  ;;have  formed   some    prior ■  attachment,  or  there 

She  was  silent  for   some  little   time  after  he  ^  may  be  somebody  who  Iovbs  you,  and  has  loved 
had  finished  speaking;  so  silent  that  he  feared ;;  you  longer  than  Mr.  Marchmont,  who — ' 
his  words  might  have  touched  her  too  painfully,  ^     His  daughter  turned  upon  him  sharply  as  he 
:ind  that  she  was  crying.  1;  rambled  on. 

Heaven  help  this  simple-hearted  father!  She'  'Somebody  who  loves  me!'  she  echoed.  'What 
had  scarcely  heard  three  consecutive  words  that  ;  have  you  ever  seen  that  should  make  you  think 
iie  had  spoken,  bqt  had  only  gathered  dimly  from  J;  auy  one  loved  mer' 

Ills  speech  that  he  wanted  her  to  accept  John';  The  harshness  of  her  tone  jarred  upon  Mr. 
Marchmont's  offer.^  >  Al-undel,  and  made  him  still  more  nervous. 

Every  great  passion  is  a  supreme  egotism.  It  ;  'My  love,  I  beg  your  pardon.  I  have  seen 
is  not  the  object  which  we  hug  so  determinedly;';  nothing.     I — ' 

it  is  not  the  object  which  coils  itself  about  our ;;  'Nobody  loves  me,  or  has  ever  loved  me— 
weak  hearts;  it  is  our  own  madness  we  worship;  but  you,'  resunw-d  Olivia,  taking  no  heed  of  her 
:ind  cleave  to,  our  own  pitiable  folly  which  we ';  father's  feeble  interruption.  'I  am  not  the 
refuse  to  put  away  from  us.  What  is  Bill  Sjkes's  j;  sort  of  woman  to  be  loved;  1  feel  and  know 
liroken  nose  or  bull-<log  visage  to  Nancy?  The  ;  that.  I  have  an  aquiline  nose,  and  a  clear  skin, 
creature  she  loves  and  will  not  part  with  is  not  ;l  and  dark  eyes,  and  people  call  me  handsome; 
Bill,  but  her  own  love  for  Bill — the  one  delusion  ^  but  nobody  loves  me,  or  ever  will,  so  long  as  1 
of  a  barren  liFc;  the  one  jrrand  selfishness  of  a  ^  live.' 
feeble  nature.  •  ;;     'But  Mr.  Marchmont,  my  dear— surely  he  loves 

Olivia  Arundel's  thoughts  had  wandered  far  ■! and  admires  you?' remonstrated  the  Rector. 
:iway  while  her  father  had  spoken  so  piteously  to  >  'Mr.  Marchmont  wants  a  governess  and 
lier.  She  had  been  thinking  of  her  cousin  Ed-  -chaperon  for  his  daughter,  and  thinks  roe  a  suita- 
ward,  and  had  been  asking  herself  the  same  J'ble  person  to  fill  such  a  post;  that  is  all  the  Zo»v 
question  over  and  over  again.  Would  he  be ;  Mr.  Marchmont  has  for  me.  No,  papa;  there 
sorry?  would  he  be  sorry  if  she  raarriedJohn  ;  is  no  reason  I  should  shrink  from  this  marriage. 
jMarchmont?  "  :  Ti|ere  is  no  one  who  will  be  sorry  for  it;  no  one. 

But  she  understood  presently  that  her  father 'I  am  asked  to  perform  a  duty  toward  this  little 
was  waiting  for  her  to  speak;  and,  rising  from  ;  girl,  and  I  am  prepared  to  perform  it  faithfully, 
her  chair,  she  went  toward  him,  and  laid  her ;  That  is  my  part  of  the  bargain.  Do  1  commit  a 
hand  upon  his  shoulder.  sin  in  marrying  John  Marchmont  in  this  spirit, 

'[  am  afraid  I  have  not  done  my  duty  to  you,   papa?' 
papa,' she  said.  She  asked  the  question  eagerly,  almost  brfsath- 

Latterly  she  had  been  forever  harping  upon  less'ly,  as,  if  her  decision  depended  upon  her 
this  one  theme — her  dutj  !     That  word  was  the    father's  answer. 

key-note  of  her  life;  and  her  existence  had  lat-  'A  sin.  my  dear!  How  can  you  a.sk  such  a 
terly  seemed  to  her  so  inharmonious  that  it  was   question?' 

•scarcely  strange  she  should  repeatedly  strike  that       'Very  well,  then;  if  I  commit  no  sin  in  aecept- 
Ipading  note  in  the  scale.  in?  this  offer  I  will  accept  it.' 

'My  darling,'  cried  Mr.  Arundel,  'you  have  It  was  thus  Olivia  paltered  with  her  con- 
been  "al!  that  is  good.'  .  science,  holding  back  half  the  truth.     The  ques- 

'No,  no,  papa;  I  have  .been  cold,  reserved,  tion  she  shouldhave  asked  was  this — 'Do  I  corn- 
silent. '  mit  a  sin  in  marrying  one  man  while  my  heart 

'A  little  silent,  my  dear,'  the  Rector  answered,  i  is  filled  with  a  mad  and  foolish  love  for  anotheri?' 
meekly;  'but  you  have  not  been  happy.    I  have ,     Miss  Arundel  could  not  visit  her  poor  upon 


JOHN  MARCHMONT'S  LEGACY. 


33 


the  day  after  this  interview  with  her  father,  t  He  looked  with  fearful  glances  toward  the  dim 
Her  monotonous  rou»d  of  duty  seemed  more  than  |  future,  and  saw  his  darling,  a  lonely  fit;ure  upon 
ever  abhorrent  to  her.  She  wandered  across  ■  a  barren  landscape,  beset  with  enemies  eager  to 
the  dreary  marshes,  down  by  the'  lonely  sea- <  devour  her;  and  he  snatched  at  this  one  chance 
shore,  in  the  gray  November  fog.  ^  of  securing  her  a  proteciress,  who  would  be  bound 

She  stood  for  a  long  time,  shivering  with  the  ■  to  her  by  a  legal  as  well  as  a  moral  tie;  for  John 
cold  dampness  of  the  atmosphere,  but  not  even  I;  Marchmont  meant  to  appoint  his  second  wife  the 
conscious  that  she  was  cold,  looking  at  a  dilapi-  '.•  ijuardian  of  his  child.  He  thought  only  of  tiis; 
dated  boat  that  lay  upon  the  ruggedbeach.  The  |  and  he  hurried  on  his  suit  at  the  Rectory,  fearful 
waters  before  her  and  the  land  behind  her  were  lest  death  should  come  betv,  ten  him  and  his  love- 
hidden  by  a  dense  veil  of  mist.  It  seemed  as  if ,;  less  bride,  aud  thus  deprive  his  darling  of  a  second 
she  stood  alone  in  the  world — utterly  isolated,  >  mother, 
utterly  forgotten.  <      This   was  the  history  of  John   Marchmont's 

'O,  my  God  !'  she  murmured;  'if  this  boat  at*| second  marriage.  It  was  not  till  a  week  before 
my  feet  could  drift  me  away  to  some  desert  7  the  day  appointed  for  the  wedding  that  he  told 
island,  I  could  never  be  more  desolffte  than  1  am  j  his  daughter  what  he  was  about  to  do.  Edward 
among  the  people  who  do  not  love  me.  |  Arundel  knew  the  secret,  but  he  had  been  warned 

Dim  lights  in  distant  windows  were  gleaming  ;.  not  to  reveal  it  to  Mary, 
across  the  flats  when  she  returned  to  Swamping-  \  The  father  and  daughter  sat  together  late  one 
ton,  to  fuid  her  father  sitting  alone  and  dispirited  i  evening  in  the  first  week  of  December,  in  the 
at  his  frugal  dinner,  j^liss  Arundel  took  her  )  great  western  drawing-room,  fidward  had  gone 
place  quietly  at  the  bottom  of  the  table,  Avith  no  j  to  a  party  at  Swiunpinglon,  and  was  to  sleep  at 
trace  of  emotion  upon  her  face.  <  the  Rectory;  so  Mary  and  her  father  were  alone. 

'J  am  sorry  1  stayed  out  so  long,  papa,'  she  ■,  It  was  nearly  eleven  o'clock;  but  Miss  Marcii- 
said;  'I  had  no  idea  it  was  so  late.'  ^  mont  had  insisted  upon  sitting  up  until  her  father 

•Never  mind,  my  dear.  I  know  you  have  |  should  retire  to  rest.  She  had  always  sat  up  in 
always  enough  to  occupy  you.  Mr.  Marchmont  |  Oakley  Street,  she  had  renionstrated,  though  she 
called  while  you  were  out.  He  seemed  very  |  was  much  younger  then.  She  sat  011  a  velvet- 
anxious  to  hear  your  decision,  and  was  delighted  {  covered  hassock  at  her  father's  feet,  with  her  fair 
when  he  found  that  it  was  favorable  to  himself.'  \  hair  falling  over  his  kgee,  as  her  head  lay  there 

Olivia  dropped  her  knife  and  fork,  and  rose  J  in  loving  abandonment.  She  was  not  talking  to 
from  her  ciiair  suddenly,  with  a  strange  look,  }  him;  for  neither  John  nor  Mary  were  great 
which  was  ahuost  terror,  in  her  face.  ^talkers;  but  she  was   with  him — that  was  quite 

•It  is  quite  decided,  then  r'  she  said.  >  enough. 

'Yes,  my  love.     But  you  are  not  sorry,  are  \      Mr.   Marchmont's   thin   fingers  tM'incd  them 


your 
'  Sorry ! 


No;  1  am  glad.' 


selves  listlessly  in  and  out  of  the  fair  curls  upon 
his  knee.     Mary  was  thinking  of  Edward  and  the 


wife. 


She  sank  back  into  her  chair  with  a  sigh  of '  party  at  Swampington.  Would  lie  enjoy  himself 
relief.  She  uuis  glad.  The  prospect  of  this  ^  very,  very  much  ?  Would  he  be  sorry  that  she 
strange  marria'^  oiiered  a  reliel  from  the  horri-  >  was  not  there?  It  v/as  a  grown-up  party,  and  she 
ble  oppression  of  "her  life.  s  wasn't  old  enougH  for  grown-up  parties  yet. — 

'Henceforward  to   think  of  Edward   Arundel  5  Would  the  pretty  girls  in  blue  be  there?   and 
will  be  a  sin,'  she  thought.     '1    have   not  won  j  would  he  dance  with  ihcm? 
another  man's  love,  but  1  sliall  be  nnolher  man's  \      Her  father's  face  was  clouded  by  a  troubled 

>  expression,  as  he  looked  absently  at  the  red  em- 
\  bers  in  the  low  lire-place.     He  spoke  presently, 

>  but  his  observation  was  a  very  commonplace  one. 
The  opening  speeches  of  a  tragedy  are  seldom 
remarkable  for  any  ominous  or  solemn  meaning. 
Two  gentlemen  meet  each  other  in  a  street  very 
near  the  footlights,  and  converse  rather  flippantly 
about  the  aspect  of  affairs  in  general;  there  is  no 

Pf.i»uaps  there  was  never  k  quieter  courtship  i  tint  of  bloodshed  and  agony  till  we  get  deeper  into 
than  that  which  followed  Olivia's  accoptanc^of  I  the  play. 

John  Marchmonfs   ofler.      There   had  been  no  ^      So  Mr.  Marchmont,  bent  upon  making  rather 
pretense  of  sentiment  un  either  side;  yet  1  doubt  j  an  important  communication  to  his  daughter,  and 


CHAPTER  X. 


MAUY   S   STEP-MOTHER. 


if  John  had  been  much  more  sentimental  during 
liis  early  love-making  days,  though  he  had  very 
tenderly  and  truly  loved  his  first  wife.  There 
were  few  sparks  of  the  romantic  or  emotional 
lire  in  his  placid  nature.  His  love  for  his  daugh- 
ter, though  it  absorbed  his  whole  being,  was  a 
silent  ami  undemonstrative  affection;  a  thought 


for  tlie  first  time  feeling  very  fearful  as  to  hoAv 
she  would  ta|;e  it,  began  thus  : 

'You  really  ought  to  go  to  bed  earlier,  Polly 
dear;  you've  been  looking  very  pale  lately,  and 
I  know  such  hours  as  these  must  be  bad  for  you.' 
'Oh  no,  papa,  dear,' cried  the  young  lady;  'I'm 
always  pale;  that's  natural  to  me.  Sitting  up 
ful  and  almost  fearful  ilevotion,  which  took  the  pate  doesn't  hurt  me,  papa.  It  never  did  in  Oak- 
form  of  intense  but  hidden  anxiety  for  his  child's  'ley  Street,  you  know, 
future  rather  than  any  outward  show  of  tender-';  John  Marchmont  shook  his  head  sadly, 
ness.  ''.     'I  don't  know  that,' he  said.     'My  darling  had 

Had  his  love  been  of  a  more  impulsive  and  ;to  suHer  many  evils  through  her  father'**  poverty, 
demonstrative  character,  he  wouhl  scarcely  have  ;  If  you  had  some  one  who  loved  you,  dear,  a  lady, 
thought  of  taking  such  a  step  as  that  he  now  con- j  you  know — for  a  man  does  not  undcr.^itaiid  these 
templated,  without  first  ascertaining  whether  it  sort  of  things — your  health  would  be  looked  after 
was  agreeable  to  his  daugli^^r.  ;  more  carefully,  and — and — your  education — and 

liut  he  never  for  a  moment  dreamed  of  con- ^ — in  shorJ,  you  would  bo  altogether  htppirr; 
suiting  Mary's  will  upon  this  jmportani   matler.  '.wouldn't  you,  Polly  darling?' 


JOHN   MAilCHMONT'S  LEGACY. 


??: 


He  asked  the  question  in  an  almost  piteously  j  ing  down  her  white  cheeks,  butwith  a  certain  air 
appealing  tone:  A  terrible  fear  v/as  beginning  to  J  of  resolution  about  her.  Sl|e  had  been  a  child 
take  possession  of  him.  His  daughter  mig-ht  be  )  for  a  few  moments;  a  child,  with  no  power  to 
grieved  at  this  second  marriage.  The  very  step  j  look  beyond  the  sudden  pang  of  that  new  sorrow 
which  he  had  taken  for  her  happiness  might  cause  .;  which  had  come  to  her.  She  was  a  woman  now, 
her  loving  nature  pain  and  sorrow.  In  the  utter  ,;  able  to^ise  superior  to  her  sorrow  in  the  strength 
cowardice   of  his   affection   he   trembled  at  the  ;  of  her  womanhood. 

thought  of  causing  his  darling  any  distress  in  the»,  'I  won't  be  cruel,  papa,'  she  said;  'I  was  sel- 
present,  even  for  her  future  welfare,  even  for  her  ,>  fish  and  wicked  to  talk  like  that.  If  it  will  make 
future  good;  and  he  knew  that  the  step  he  was  ;  you  happy  I.0  have  another  wife,  papa,  I'll  not  be 
about  to  take  would  secure  that.  Mary  started  '  sorry.  No,  I  won't  be  sorry,  even  if  your  new 
from  her*rcclioing  position,  and  looked  up  into    wife  separates  us — a  little.' 

her  father's  face.  i      'But,  my  darling,'  John  remonstrated,  '1  don't 

'You're  not  going  to  engage  a  governess  for  me, ;:  faean  that  she  should  separate  us  at  all.  I  wish 
upa?'  she  cried,  eagerly.  'Oh,  please  don't.  ;,  you  to  have  a  second  friend,  Polly;  some  one  who 
Ve  are  so  much  better  as  it  is.  A.  governess ;!  can  understaflO  you  better  tlian  I  do,  who  may 
would  keep  me  away  from  you,  papa;  I  know  she  '  love  you  perhaps  almost  as  well. '  Mary  March- 
would.  The  Miss  Landells,  at  Impley  Grange,  :  mont  shook  her  head;  she  could  not  realize  this 
have  a  governess:  and  they  only  come  down  to  possibility.  'Do  you  understand  me,  my  dear?' 
dessert  for  half  an  hour,  or  go  out  for  a  drive >:  her  father  continued,  earnestly.  'I  want  you  to 
sometimes,  so  that  they  very  seldom  see  their  papa. ';  have  some  one  who  will,be  a  mother  .to  you;  and 
Lucy  told  me  so;  and  thoy  said  they'd  give  the  ;  I  hope — I  am  sure  that  Olivia — ' 
world  to  be  always  with  their  papa,  as  1  am  with  ;  Mary  interrupted  him  by  a  sudden  exclamation, 
you.  Oh  pray,  pray,  papa  darling,  don 't^ let  me  that  was  almost  like  a  cry  of  pain, 
have  a  governess.'  ;      'Not  Miss  Arundel!'  she  said.     'Oh  papa,  it  is 

The  teirs  were  in  her  eyes  as  she  pleaded  to  ;■  not  Miss  Arundel  you  are  going  to  marry  !' 
him.     The  sight  of  those  tears  made  him  terribly  ,i      Her  father  bent  his  head  in  assent, 
nervous.  ^  ,  f;      'What  is  the  matter  with  you,  Mary.'' he  said, 

'My  own  dear  Polly,'  he  said,  Tin  not  going  to  ',  almost  fretfully,  as  he  saw  the  look  of  mingled 
engage  a  governess.  I — Polly,  Polly  dear,  you)  grief  and  terror  in  his  daughter's  face.  'You are 
must  be  reasonable.  Yoif  mustn't  grieve  yours  really  quite  unreasonable  to-night.  If  I  am  to 
poor  father.  You  are  old  enough  to  understand ;,  marry  at  all,  who  should  1  choose  for  a  wife.' 
these  things  now,  dear.  You  know  what  the  doc- 1  Who  could  be  better  than  Olivia  Arundel  ?  Every 
tors  have  said.  1  may  die,  Polly,  and  leave  you  )  body  knows  how  good  she  ia.  Every  body  talks 
alone  in  the  world.'  ^,  of  her  goodness.' 

She  clung  closely  to  her  father,  and  looked  upj  ^  In  these  two  sentences  Mr.  Marchmont  made 
pale  and  trembling,  as  she  answered  him.  /  confession  of  a  fact  he  had  never  himself  consid- 

'When  you  die,  papa,  I  shall  die  too.  I  could  •;  ered.  It  was  not  his  own  impulse,  it  was  no  in- 
never,  never  live  without  you.'  \  stinctive  belief  in  her  goodness,  that  had  led  him 

'Yes,  yes,  my  darling,  you  would.  You  will  >  to  choose  Olivia  Arundel  for  his  .wife.  He  had 
live  to  lead  a  happy  life,  please  God,  and  a  safe  !;  been  influenced  solely  by  the  reiterated  opinions 
one:  but  if  1  die,  and  leave  you  very  young,  very  j;  of  other  people. 

inexperienced,  and  innocent,  as  I  may  do,  my!;      'I  know  she  is  very  gooJ,  papa,'  Mary  cried; 
dear,  you  must  not  be  without  a  friend  to  watch  \  <but  oh,  why,  why  do  you  marry  her.'    Do  you 
over  you,  to  advise,  to  protect  you.    I  have  thought  (  love  her  so  very,  very  much  ?' 
of  this  long  and  earnestly,  Polly;  and  I  believe^     'Love  her !' exclaimed  Mr^  Marchmont,  naively; 
that  what  1  am  going  to  do  is  right.' 

•What  you  are  going  to  do!'  Mary  cried,  re- 
peating her  father's  words,  and  looking  at  him  in  ! 
sudden  terror.    'What  do  you  mean,  papa?   What  ' 
are  you  going  to  do  .'    Nothing  that  will  part  us  ! 

Oh  papa,  papa,  you  will  never  do  any  thing  to  \  don't  want  her.     1  don't  like  her. 

partus?'  I  be  happy  with  her.' 

•No,  Polly  darling,'  answered  Mr.  Marchmont.  J      '  Jiary  !    Mary  !' 

•Whatever  I  do  I  do  for  your  sake,  and  for  that  (      'Yes,  I  know  it's  very  wicked  to  say  so,  but  it's 

alone.     I'm  going  to  be  married,  my  dear.'  J  true,  papa;  I  never,  never,  never  could  be  happy 

Mary  burst  into  a  low  wail,  more  pitiful  than  !  with  her.     I  know  she  is  good,  but  I  don't  like 

any  ordinary  weeping.  |  her.     If  I  did  any  thing  wrong,  I  should  never 

'Oh  papa,  papa,' she  cried, 'you  neverwill, you  J  expect  her  to  forgive  me  for  it;  I  should  sever 

never  will!'  j  expect  her  to  have  mercy  upon  me.     Don't  marry 

The  sound  of  that  piteous  voice  for  a  few  mo- 1  her,  papa;  pray,  pray  don't  marry  her.' 
ments  <iuite  unmanned  John  Marchmont;  but  he/  'Mary,' said  Mr.  Marchmont,  resolutely,  'this 
armed  himself  with  a  desperate  courage.  He  de-  /  is  very  wrong  of  you.  I  have  given  my  word,  my 
termincd  not  to  be  influenced  by  this  child  to  re-  \  dear,  and  I  can  not  recall  it.  I  believe  that  1  am 
Unquish  the  purpose  which  he  believed  was  to  f  acting  for  the  best.  You  must  not  be  childisli 
achieve  her  future  welfare.  /now,  Mary.    You  have  been  my  comfort  ever 

'Mary,  Mary  dear,' he  said,  reproachfully,  'this  >  since  you  were'a  baby;  you  mustn't  make  me  un- 
is  very  cruel  of  you.     Do  you   think  I  haven't  ( happy ^ow.' 

consulted  your  happiness  before  my  own?  Do  >  Her  father's  appeal  went  straight  to  her  heart, 
you  think  I  shall  love  you  less  because  I  take  this  )  Yes,  she  had  been^his  help  and  comfort  since  her' 
.step  for  your  sake?  You  are  very  cruel  to  me,  '<  earliest  infancy,  and  slve  was  not  unused  to  self- 
Mary.'  I  sacrifice;  why  should  i^e  fail  him  now?  She  had 
The  little  girl  rose  from  her  kneeling  attitude,  i  read  of  martyrs,  patient  and  holy  creatures,  to 
and  stood  before  her  father,  with  the  tears  stream-  \  whom  suffering  was  glory;  she  would  be  a  martyr. 


'no,  Polly  dear;  you  know  I  never  loved  any  one 

but  you.' 

'Why  do  you  marry  her,  then  ?' 
'For  your  sake,  Polly;  for  your  sake.' 
•But  don't,  then,  papa;  oh  pray,  pray  don't.  •! 

I  could  never 


JOHN  MARCHMOKT'S  LEGACY. 


il  need  were,  lor  his  sake.  She  Avould  stand 
steadfast  amidst  the  blazing  fagots,  or  walk  un- 
fimchingly  across  the  white-hoC  plowshare;  for 
his  sake,  for  his  sake.  ■  '      . 

'Pai)a,  papa,' she  cried,  flinE»ing  herself  upon 
her  father's  neck,  'I  will  not  make  you  sorry.  I 
will  be  good  and  obedient  to  Miss  Arundel,  if  you 
wish  it. '  •        • 

Mr.  Marehmont  carried  his  little  girl  up  to  her 
comfortable  bedchamber  close  athandlo  hisown. 
She  was  very  calm  when  she  bade  him  good- 
night; and  she  kissed  him  with  a  smile  upon  her 
face;  but  all  through  the  long  hours  "before  the 
late  winter  morning  Mary  Marehmont  lay  awake, 
weeping  silently  and  incessantly  in  her  new  sor- 
row; and  all  through  the  same  weary  hours  the 
master  of  that  noble  Lincolnshire  mansion  slept 
a  fitful  and  troul)lcd  slumber,  rendered  hideous  by 
confused  and  horrible  dreams,  in  which  the  black 
shadow  that  came  between  him  and  hts  cliild ,  and 
the  cruel  hand  that  thrust  him  forever  from  his 
darling,  were  Olivia  Arundel's.* 

But  the  morning  light  brought  relief  to  John 
Marehmont  and  his  child.  Mary  arose  with  the 
determination  to  submit  patiently  to  her  father's 
choice,  and  to  conceal  from  him  all  traces  of  her 
foolish  and  unreasoning  sorrow.  John  awoke 
from  troubled  dreams  to  believe  in  the  wisdom  of 
the  step  he  had  taken,  and  to  take  comfort  from 
the  thought  that  in  the  far-away  future  his  daugh- 
ter would  have  reason  to  thank  and  bless  him  for 
the  choice  he  had  made. 

So  the  few  days  before  the  marriage  passed 
away — miserably  short  days,  that  tlitted  by  with 
terrible  speed;  and  the  last  day  of  all  was  made 
still  more  dismal  by  the  departure  of  Edward 
'Arundel,  who  left  INlarchmotit  Towers  to  go  to 
Dangerficld  Park,  whence  he  was  most  likely  to 
start  once  more  for  India. 

Mary  felt  that  her  narrow  world  of  Jove  was 
indeed  crumbling  away  from  her.  Edward  was 
lost,  and  to-morrow  her  'father  would  belong  to 
another.  Mr.  Marehmont  dined  at  the  Rectory 
upon  that  last  evening;  for  (here  were  settlements 
to  be  signed  and  other  matters  to  be  arranged; 
and  Mary  was  alone — quite  alone — weeping  over 
her  lost  happiness. 

'This  would  never  have  haj)p"cned,' she  thought, 
•if  we  hadn't  come  to  Marehmont  Towers.  I 
wish  papa  had  never  had  the  fortune;  we  were  so 
happy  in  Oakley  Street — so  very  happy.  I 
wouldn't  mind  a  bit'  being  poor  again  if  I  could 
be  always  with  pap^.'  ! 

Mr.  Marclynont  had  not  been  able  to  make  him-  i 
self  quite  comfortable  in  his  mind,  after  that  un- ' 
pleasant  interview  with  his  daughter  in  which  he  : 
liad  broken  to  her  tlie  news  of  his- approaching 
juarriage.  Argue  with  himself  as  he  might  upon  ' 
the  advisability  of  the  step  he  was  about  to  take, : 
he  could  not  argue  away  the  fact  that  he  had  j 
grieved  the  cliild  he  loved  so  intensely.  He  eoul3  j 
not  blot  away  from  his  memory  the  pitiful  aspect  j 
of  her  terror-stricken  face  as  she  nad  turned  it  I 
toward  him  when  he  ifttcrcd  the  name  of  Olivia  | 
Arundel.  i 

No  ;  he  had  grieved  and  distressed  her.  The  j 
future  might  reconcile  her  to  that  grief,  perhaps,  I 
as  a  by-gone  sorrow  which  she  had  been  allowed  j 
to  suffer  for  her  own  ultimate  advantage.  But  the  j 
future  was  a  long  way  oil';  and  in  the  mean  time  j 
there  was  Mary's  altered  face,  calm  and  resigned, 
but  bearing  upon  it  a  settled  look  of  sori'ow,  very  > 
clobo  at  hand;  aud  John  Marehmont  coul()>,not  be ' 


otherwise  than  unhappy  in  llic  knowledge  of  his 
darling's  grief. 

I  donot  belie v6  that  any  man  or  woman  is  ever 
suBered  to  take  any  fatal  step  upon  the  roadway 
of  life  without  receiving  ample  warning  by  the 
way.      The  stumbling-blorks   are  placed  in  the 
;  fatal  path  by  a  merciful  hand;  but  we  insist  upon 
'  groping  over  them,  and  surmounting  them  in  our 
:  blind  obstinacy,  to  reach  that  shadowy  something 
.beyond,  which  we  have  iaour  ignorance  appointed 
:  to  be  our  goal.     A  thousand  ominous  whispers  in 
hisown  breist  warned  John  Marehmont  that  the 
step  he  considered  so  wise  was  not  a  wise  one: 
and  yet,  in  spite  of  all  these  subtle  warnings,  in 
spite   of  the  ever-present  reproach  of  his  daugh- 
ter's  altered  face,-  this  man,  who  was  too  weak 
to  trust  blindly  inhis  God,  went  oii  persistently 
upon  his  way,  trusting,  with  a  thousand  times  more 
fatal  blindness,  in  his  own  wisdom. 
*  He  could  not  be  content  to  confide  his  darling 
and  her  altered  fortunes  to  the  Providence  which 
had  watched  over  her  in  her  poverty,  and  shel- 
tered her  from  every  harm.      He  could  not  trust 
his  child  to  the   mercy   of  God,  but  he  cast  h«r 
upon  the  love  of  Olivia  Arundel. 

Anew  life  began  for  Mary  Marehmont  after 
the  quiet  wedding  at  Swampington  Church.  The 
bride  and  bridegroom  went  upon  a  brief  honey- 
moon excursion  far  away  among  snow-clad  Scot- 
tish mountains  and  frozen  streams,  upon  whose 
bloomless  margins  poor  John  shivered  dismally. 
I  fear  that  Mr.  Marehmont,  having  been,  by  the 
hard  pressure  of  poverty,  compelled  to  lead  a 
Cockney  life  for  the  better  half  of  his  existence, 
had  but  slight  relish  for  the  grand  and  sublime  in 
nature.  1  do  not  think  that  he  looked  at  the  ru- 
ined walls  which  had  onte  sheltered  Macbeth  and 
his  strong-minded  partner  with  ali  the  enthusiasm 
which  might  have  been  expected  of  him.  He  had 
but  one  idea  about  Macbeth,  and  he  was  rather 
glad  to  get  out  of  the  neighborhood  associated 
with  the  warlike  Thane;  for  his  memories  of  the 
past  presented  King  Duncan's  murderer  as  a  iiery 
stern  and  uncompromising  gentleman,  who  was 
utterly  intoleiant  of  banners  held  awry,  or  turned 
with  the  blank  and  ignoble  side  toward  the  audi- 
ence, and  who  objected  vehemently  to  a  violent 
fit  of  coughing  on  the  part  of  any  one  of  his  guest.^ 
during  the  blank  Barmecide  least  of  pasteboard 
and  Dutch  metal  with  which  he  was  wont  to  en- 
tertain them.  No;  John  Marehmont  had  had 
quite  enough  of  Macbeth,  and  rather  wondered, 
at  the  hot  enthusiasm  of  other  red-nosed  tourists, 
apparently  indifferent  to  the  frosty  weather. 

I  fear  that  the  master  of  Marehmont  Towers 
would  have  preferred  Oakley  Street,  Lambetli,  to 
Princes  Street,  Edinburgh;  for  the  nipping  and 
eager  airs  of  the  modern  Athens  nearly  blew  him 
across  the  gulf  between  the  new  town  and  the 
old.  A  visit  to  the  Calton  Hill  producod  an  at- 
tack of  that  chronic  cough  which  had  so  severely 
tormented  the  weak-kneed  supernumerary  in  Iho 
draughty  corridors  of  Drury  Lane.  Mehose  ami 
Abbotsford  fatigued  this  poor  feeble  touiist;  h^ 
tried  to  be  interested  in  the  stereotyped  round  of 
associations  beloved  by  other  travelers,  but  he  had 
a  weary  craving  for  rest,  which  was  stronger  thart 
any  hero-worship;  and  he  discovered,  bcforclong, 
that  he  had  done  a  very  foolish  thing  iu  coming 
to  Scotland  in  December  and  January,  without 
having  consulted  his  physician  as  to  the  propriety 
of  such  a  step. 

But  above  all  personal  inconvenience,  above  all 
personal  auflering,  there  was  one  feeling  ever  pre*- 


36  .  JOHN  MARCHMONT'S  LEGACf . 

ent  in  his  heart — a  sick  yearning  for  the  little  girl ;  least  faithfully  to  perform  that  poi-tion  of  her 
he  had  left  behind  him;  a  mournful  longing  to  be  vow;  and  on  the  night  before  her  loveless  bridal  i 
back  with  his  child.  Already  Mary's  sfd  fore-  she  had  groveled — white,  writhing,  mad,  and  des- 
bodings  had  beeji  in  some  way  realized:  already  perate— upon  the  ground,  and  had  plucked  out 
his  new  wife  had  separated  him,  unintentionally,' of  her  lacerated  heart  her  hopeless  love  for 
of  course,   from   his   daughter.     The  aches  and   another  man. 

pains  he  endured  in  thebleak  Scottish  atmosphere  •  Yes;  she  had  done  this.  Another  woman  might 
reminded  him  too  forcibly  of  the  warnings  he  had  ;  have  spent  the  bridal  eve  in  vain  tears  and  lamen- 
rcceived  from  his  physi^cians.  He  was  seized  tations,  in  feeble  prayers,  and  such  weak  strug- 
with  a  panic  almost  whpn  he  remembered  his  own  ^les  as  might  have  been  evidenced  by  the  destruc- 
imprudence.  What  if  he  had  needlessly  curtailed  tion  of  a  few  letters,  a  tress  of  hair,  some  fra- 
ihe  short  span  of  his  l^fe  !  What  if  he  were  to  ,  gile  foolish  tokens  of  a  wasted  love.  She  would 
die  soon;  before  Olivia  had  learned  to  love  her;  have  burned  five  out  of  six  letters,  perhaps — that 
step-daughter;  before  Mary  had  grown  affection-;  helpless,  ordinary  sinner — and  would  have  kept 
ately  familiar  with  her  new  guardian  ?  Again  and  the  sixth,  to  hoard  away  hidden  among  her  matri- 
a"-ain  he  appealed  to  his  wife,  imploring  her  to  monial  trousseau;  she  would  have  thrown  away 
be  tepder  to  the  orphan  chi^d-,  if  he  should  be  fifteen-sixteenths  of  that  tress  of  hair,  and  would 
snatched  away  suddenly.  have  kept  the  sixteenth  portion — one  delicate  curl 

■  'I  know  you  will  love  her  by-and-by,  Olivia,'  of  gold,  slender  as  the  thread  by  which  hershat- 
lie  said;  'as  much  as  1  do,  perhaps;  for  you  wUl '  tered  hopes  had  hung — to  be  wept  over  and  kissed 
discover  how  good  she  is,  how  patient  and  unsel-  in  the  days  that  were  to  come.  An  ordinary  wo- 
fish.  But  just  at  first,  and  before  you  know  her  man  would  hav%  played  fast  and  loose  with  lore 
very  well,  you  v/ill  be  kind  to  her,  won't  you,;  and  duty;  and  so  would  have  been  true  to  neither. 
Olivia?  She  has  been  used  to  great  indulgence;;  But  Olivia  Arundel  did  none,  of  these  things, 
she  lias  been  spoiled,  perhaps;  but  you'll  remem-  She  battled  with  her  weakness  as  St.  George 
ber  all  that,  and  be  very  kind  to  her.'  :  battled  with  the  fiery  dragon..     She  plucked  Ihe 

'I  Avill  try  and  do  my  duty,'  Mrs.  Marchmont  rooted  serpent  from  her  heart,  reckless  as  to  how 
answered.     '1  pray  Ihat  I  never  may  do  less.'  much  of  that  desperate  heart  was  to  be  wrenched 

There  was  no  tender  yearning  in  Olivia  March-;,  away  with  its  roots.  A  cowardly  woman  would 
mont's  heart  toward  the  motherless  girl.  She  have  killed  herself,  perhaps,  rather  than  endure 
herself  felt  that  such  a  feeling  was  wanting,  and  this  mortal  agony.  Olivia  Arundel  killed  more 
comprehended  that  it  should  have  been  there,  than  herself;  she  killed  the  passion  that  had  bc- 
She  would  have  loved  her  step-daughter  in  those  ^  come  stronger  than  herself, 
early  days  if  she  could  have  done  so;  but  she  could  '  'Alone  she  did  it;'  imaided  by  any  human  sym- 
jiot — she  could  not.  All  that  was  tender  or  wo-  pathy,  or  compassion,  unsupported  by  any  human 
jnanly  in  her  nature  had  been  wasted  upon  her  counsel,  not  iljiheld  by  her  God;  for  the  religion 
hopeless  love  for  Edward  Arundel.  The  utter  she  had  made  for  herself  was  a  hard  creed,  and  * 
wreck  of  that  small  freight  bf  affection  had  left  the  many  words  of  tender  comfort  which  must 
her  nature  warped  and  stunted,  soured,  disap-;  have  been  familiar  to  her,  were  unremembercd 
pointed,  unwomanly.  in  that  long  night  of  anguish. 

How  was  she  to  love  this  child,  this  fair-haired,/  It  wa5  the  Roman's  stern  endurance,  rather 
'!ove-eyed  girl,  before  whom  woman's  life,  with  ,  than  the  meek  faithfulness  of  the  Christian,  which 
,11  its  natural  wealth  of  affection,  stretched  far '  upheld  this  unhappy  girl  under  her  torture.  She 
way,  a  bright  and  fairy  vista }  How  was  she  to  -  did  not  do  this  thing  because  it  pleased  her  to  be 
love  lier — she,  whose  black  future  was  uncheck- ;  obedient  to  her  God.  She  did  not  do  it  because 
crcd  by  one  ray  of  light,  who  stood  dissevered  _  she  believed  in  the  mercy  of  Him  who  inflicted 
from  the  past,  alone  in  the  dismal,  dreamless  mo-  the  suffering,  and  looked  forward  liopefully,  even 
notony  of  the  present.'  amidst  her  passionate  grief,  to  the  day  when  she 

fNo,'  she  thought,  'beggars  and  princes  can  should  better  comprthendtliat  which  she  now  saw 
.  never  love  each  other.  When  this  girl  and  I  are  so  darkly.  No;  she  fought  the  terrible  fight,  and 
equals — when  she,  like  me,  stands  alone  upon  a  she  came  forth  out  of  it  a  conqueror,  by  reason 
barren  rock,  far  out  amidst  the  waste  of  waters,  of  her  own  indomitable  power  of  suffering,  by 
with  not  one  memoiy  to  hold  her  to  the  past,  reason  of  her  own  extraordinary  strength  of  will, 
with  not  one  hope  to  lure  her  onward  to  the  fu- ;  But  she  did  conquer.  If  her  weapon  was  the 
ture,  with  nothing  but  tht  black  sky  above  and  classic  sword  and  not  the  Christian  »ross,  she  was 
the  black  waters  around — then  we  may  grow  fond  ;  nevertheless  a  conqueror.  When  she  stood  before 
of  each  other.'.  ;the  altar  and  gave  her  hind  to  John  Marchmont, 

But  always  more  or  less  steadfast  to  the  stand- ,  Edward  Arundel  was  dead  to  her.  The  fatal 
ard  she  had  set  up  for  herself,  Olivia  Marclimont;  habit  of  looking  at  him  as  the  one  centre  of  her 
intended  to  do  her  duty  to  her  step-daughter. —  narrow  life,  was  cured.  In  all  her  Scottish  wan- 
She  had  notfailed  in  other  duties,  though  no  glim-  derings,  her  thoughts  never  once  went  back  to 
mer  of  love  had  brightened  them,  no  natural  affcc-  him;  though  a  hundred  chance  words  and  associ- 
tion  had  made  them  pleasant.  W'hy  should  she  ations  tempted  her,  though  a  thousand  memories 
fail  in  this.'  .  ;  assailed  her,  though  some  trick  of  his  face  in  the 

•  If  this  belief  in  her  own  power  should  appear  faces  of  other  people,  though  some  tone  of  his 
to  be  spmewhat  arrogant,  let  it  be  remembered  ;  voice  in  the  voices  of  others  perpetually  offered 
that  she  had  set  herself  hard  tasks  before  now,  ;  to  entrap  her.  No;  she  was  steadfast, 
and  had  performed  them.  Would  the  new  fur- ;  Dutiful  as  a  wife  as  she  had  been  dutiful  as  a 
uace  through  which  she  was  to  pass  be  more  ter- ;  daughter,  she  bore  with  her  husband  when  his 
rible  tlian  the  old  fires .'  She  had  gone  to  God's  ;  feeble  health  made  him  a  wearisome  companion. 
altaf  with  a  man  for  whom  she  had  no  more  love  ,  She  waited  upon  him  when  pain  made  him  fret- 
than  she  felt  for  the  lowest  or  most  insignificant ,  ful,  ajid  her  duties  became  little  less  arduous  than 
of  the  miserable  sinners  in  her  father's  flock.  She  ;  those  of  a  hospital-nurse.  When,  at  the  bidding 
had  sAvoru  to  honor  and  obey  him,  meaning  at  ;of  the  Scotch  physician  who  had  been  called  in 


JOHN  MARCHMONT'S  LEGACY. 


37 


at  Edinburgh,  John  Marchmont  turned  home- '  and  turmoil  of  a  troubled  life,  unsullied  and  un- 
ward,  trareling  slowly  and  resting  often  on  the  *  lessened,  to  her  grave.  She  was  cheated  and 
way,  his  wife  was  more  devoted  to  him  than  his  imposed  upon,  robbed  and  lied  to,  by  people 
experienced  servant,  more  watchful  than  the  best  who  loved  her,  perhaps,  while  they  wronged 
trained  sick-nurse.  She  recoiled  from  nothing,  i  her — for  to  know  her  was  to  love  her.  She  was 
she  neglected  nothinc;  she  gave  him  full  measure  robbed  systematically  hy  a  confidential  servant 
of  the  honor  and  obffdience  which  she  had  prom-  for  years,  and  for  years  refused  to  believe  those 
ised  upon  her  wedding-day.  And  when  she !  who  told  her  of  his  delincpiencies.  She  could 
I'cached  Marchmont  Towers  upon  a  dreary  eve-  not  believe  that  people  were  wicked.  To  the 
ning  in  January,  she  passed  beneath  the  solemn  '  day  of  her  death  she  had  faith  in  the  scoundrels 
portal  of  the  western  front,  carrying  in  hef  heart  and  scamps  who  had  profiled  by  her  sweet  com- 
the  fu]^determination  to  hold  as  steadfastly  to  the  passion  and  untiring  benevolence;  and  indig- 
other  half  of  her  bargain,  and  to  do  her  duty  to  '  nantly  defended  Ihem  against  those  who  dared  to 
her  step-child.  :  say  that  they  were  any  thing  more  than  unfortu- 

Mary  ran  out  of  the  western  drawing-room  to  i  nate.  To  go  to  her  was  to  go  to  a  never-failing 
welcome  her  father  and  his  wife.  She  had  cast  fountain  of  love  and  tenderness.  To  know  her 
oft' her  black  dresses  in  honor  of  Mr.  March- /goodness  was  to  understand  the  goodness  of  God; 
mont's  marriage,  and  she  wore  some  soft,  silken)  for  her  love  approached  the  Infinite,  and  might 
fabric,  of  a  pale  shimmering  blue,  ^Vhich  con-  '■  have  taught  a  skeptic  tlie  possibility  of  Divinity, 
trasted  exquisitely  with  her  soft  flaxen  hair  and  !  Threescore  years  and  ten  of  worldly  experience 
her  fair  tender  face.  She  uttered  a  cry  of  min-i  left  her  an  accomplished  lady,  a  delightful  com- 
gled  alarm  and  sorrow  when  she  saw  her  father,  -  panion,  but  in  giiilelessness  a  child, 
and  perceived  tiie  change  that  had  been  made'  So  Mary  Marchmqnt,  tnisting  implicitly  in 
in  his  looks  by  the  northern  journey,  but  she  :  those  she  loved,  submitted  to  her  father's  will, 
checked  herself  at  a  warning  glance  from  her  and  prepared  to  obey  her  step-mother.  The 
step-mother,  and  bade  that  dear  father  welcome,  new'life  at  the  Towers  began  very  peacefully;  a 
clinging  about  h'un  with  an  almost  desperate  perfect  harmony  reigned  in  the  quiet  household, 
fondness.  She  greeted  Olivia  gently  and  re-1  ©Ifvia  took  the  reins  of  management  with  so 
speetfuUy.  /little  parade  that  the  old  housekeeper  who  had 

'1   will  try  to  be   very   good,   mamma,'  she/long  been  paramount  in  the  Lincolnshire  man- 
said,  as  she  took  the  passive   hand  of  the  lady  ^sion,  found  licrscH"  superseded  before  she  knew 
who  had  come  to  rule  at  Marchmont  Towers.       ',  where  she  was.     It  was  Olivia's  nature  to  govern. 
'I  believe    you    will,   my  dear,'  Olivia   an- ^  Her  strength  of  will  asserted  itself  almost  uncon- 
swercd,  kindly.  '  sciously.     She  took  possession  of  Mary  March- 

She  had  been  startled  a  little  as  Mary  ad-;montas  she  had  taken  possession  of  her  school- 
dressed  her  by  that  endearing  corruption  of  the  i  children  at  Swampington,  making  her  own  laws 
holy  word  mother.  Tlie  child  had  been  so  long /for  the  government  of  their  narrow  intellects, 
motherless,  that  she  felt  little  of  that  acute  an-  She  planned  a  routine  of  study  that  was'actually 
guish  whicli  some  orphans  suller  when  they  have  /  terrible  to  the  little  girl,  wiiose  education  had 
to  look  up  in  a  strange  face  and  say  '  mamma. '.^  hitherto  been  conducted  in  a  somewhat  slipslop 
She  had  taught  herself  the  lesson  of  resignation,/  manner  by  a  weakly-indulgent  father.  She  came 
and  she  was  prepared  to  accept  this  stranger  as '/between  Mary  an(t  her  one  amusement— the 
her  new  mother,  and  to  look  up  to  her  and  obey /reading  of  novels,  ic  The  half-bound  romances 
her  henceforward.  No  thought,  of  her  future  /  were  snatched  ruthlessly  from  this  young  de- 
position as  sole  owner  of  Marchmont  Towers  '  vourer  of  light  literature,  and  sent  back  to  the 
over  crossed  her  mind,  womanly  as  that  mind 'shabby  circulating  library  at  Swampington. 
had  become  in  the  sharp  experiences  of  poverty.  ■  ]i]vcn  the  gloomy  old  oak  book-cases  in  the  li- 
if  her  father  had  told  her  that  he  had  cut  oil'  the/brary  at  the  Towers,  and  the  Abbotsfprd  edition 
entail,  and  settled  Marchmont  Towers  upon  his /of  the  Waverley  novels,  were  forbidden  to  poor 
new  wife,  1  think  she  would  have  submitted/ Mary;  for  though  Sir  Walter  Scotts's  morality  is 
meekly  to  his  will,  and  would  have  seen  no  in-'^  irreproachable,  it  will  not  do  for  a  young  laiiy  to 
justice  in  the  act.  She  loved  him  blindly  and )  be  weeping  over  Lucy  Ashton  or  Amy  Robsart 
confidingly.  Indeed,  !ihe  could  only  love  after' when  she  should  be  consulting  her  terrestrial 
one  fashion.  The  organ  of  veneration  must  /  globe,  and  informing  herself  as  to  the  latitude 
have  been  abnormally  developed  in  Mary  March-/  and  longitude  of  the  Fiji  islands.  " 
mont's  head.  To  believe  that  any  one  she  loved  /  So  a  round  of  dry  and  dreary  lessons  began 
was  otherwise  than  perfect,  would  have  been,  in  for  poor  Miss  Marclimont,  and  her  brain  grew 
her  creed,  an  infidelity  against  love.  Had  any  almost  dazed  under  that  continuous  and  pelting 
one  told  her  that  Edward  Arundel  was  not  emi-  shower  of  hard  facts  which  many  worthy  people 
nently  qualified  for  the  post  of  General-in-Chief  consiiler  the  one  sovereign  method  of  education, 
of  the  Army  of  the  Indus;, or  that  her  father  ,  1  have  said  tliat  her  mind  was  far  in  advance  of 
could  by  any  possible, chance  be  guilty  of  a  lault  her  yeaijs;  Olivia  perceived  this,  and  set  her 
or  folly,  she  would  have  recoiled  in  horror  from  ;  tasks  in  advance  of  her  mind,  in  order  that  the 
the  treasonous  slanderer.  '  perfection  attained  by  a  sort  of  steeple-chase  of 

A  dangerous  quality,  perhaps,  this  quality  of  j  instruction  might  not  be  lost  to  her.  ll'  Mary 
guilelcssness  which  thinketh  ^I0  evil,  wtiich  can  ;  learned  difiicult  lessons  with  surprising  rapidity, 
not  be  induced  to  see  the  evil  under  its  very  I  Mrs.  Marchmont  pli^d  her  with  even  yet  more 
nose.  But  surely,  of  all  the  beautiful  and  pure !  difiicult  lessons,  tlius  keeping  the  spur  perpetu- 
Ihings  upon  this  earth,  such  bliiul  confuicnce  is  i  ally  in  the  side  of  this  heavily-weighted  racer  on 
the  purest  and  most  beautiful.  I  knew  a  lady,  '  the  road  to  learning.  13ut  it  must  not  be  thought 
dead  and  gone — alas  for  this  world,  which  could  that  Olivia  willfully  tormented  or  oppressed  lier 
ill  atlbrd  to  lose  so  good  a  Ciiristian  ! — who  car-  step-daughter.  It  was  not  so.  In  all  this,  John 
I'ied  this  trustfulness  of  spirit,  this  utter  inca- ■  Marchmont's  second  wife  implicitly  believed  that 
pacity  to  believe  in  wrong,  through  all  the  strife  ;shc  was  doing  her  duty  to  the  child  coitimittcd 


38 


JOHN  MARCHMONT'S  LEGACY. 


to  lier  care.  She  fully  believed  that  this  dreary 
routine  of  education  was  wise  and  right,  and" 
would  be  for  Mary's  ultimate  advantage.  If  she 
caused  Miss  Marchmont  to  get  up  at  abnormal 
hours  on  bleak  wintry  mornings,  for  the  purpose 
oir  wrestling  with  a  difficult  variation  by  Hertz 
or  Schubert,  she  herself  rose  also  and  sat  shiver- 
ing by  the  piano,  counting  the  time  of  the  music 
which  her  step-daughter  played. 

Whatever  pains  and  trouble  she  inflicted  on 
Mary  she  most  unshrinkingly  endured  herself. 
She  waded  through  the  dismal  siough  of  learning 
side  by  side  with  the  younger  sufferer :  Roman 
emperors,  medieval  schisms,  early  British  manu- 
factures, Philippa  of  Hainault,  Flemish  woolen 
gtulFs,  Magna  Charta,  the  sidereal  heavens,  Lu- 
ther, Newton,  Huss,  Galileo,  Calvin,  Loyola,  Sir 
Robert  Walpole,  Cardinal  Wolsey,  conchology, 
Arianism  in  the  Early  Church,  trial  by  jury, 
"Habeas  Corpus,  zoology,  Mr.  Pitt,  the  American 
war,  Copernicus,  Confucius,  Mohammed,  Harvey, 
Jenner,  Lycurgus,  and  Catherine  of  Aragon; 
through  a  very  diabolical  dance  of  history, 
science,  theology,  philosophy,  and  instruction  of 
all  kinds,  did  this  devoted  priestess  lead  her  hap- 
less victim,  struggling  onward  toward  that  dis- 
tant altar  at  which  Pallas  Athene  waited,  pale 
and  inscrutable,  to  receive  a  ncAV  disciple.         « 

But  Olivia  Marchmont  did  not  mean  to  be 
unmerciful;  she  meant  to  be  good  to  her  step- 
daughter. She  did  not  love  her;  but,  on  the 
other  hand,  she  did  not  dislike  her.  Her  feel- 
ings were  simply  negative.  Mary  understood 
this,  and  the  submissive  obedience  she  rendered 
to  her  step-mother  was  untempered  by  affection. 
So,  for  nearly  two  years  these  two  people  led  a 
monotonous  life,  unbroken  by  any  more  impor- 
tant event  than  a  dinner-party  at  Marchmont 
Towers,  or  a  brief  visit  to  Harrowgate  or  Scar- 
borough. 

This  monotonous  existence  was  not  to  go  on 
forever.  The- fatal  day,  sd  horribly  feared  by 
John  Marchmont,  was  creeping  closer  and  closer. 
The  sorrow  which  had  been  shadowed  in  every 
childish  dream,  in  every  childish  prayer,  came  at 
last;  and  Mary  Marchmont  was  left  an  orphan. 

Poor  John  had  never  quite  recovered  the  ef- 
fects of  his  winter  excursion  to  Scotland;  neither 
his  wife's  devoted  nursing,  nor. his  physician's 
care,  could  avail  forever;  and  late  in  the  autumn 
of  llie  second  year  of  his  marriage  he  sank 
slowly  and  peacefully  enough  as  regards  physical 
suffering,  but  not  without  bitter  grief  of  mind. 

In  vain  Hubert  Arundel  talked  to  him  :•  in  vain 
did  he  himself  pray  for  faith  and  comfort  in  this 
dark  hour  of  trial.  He  could  not  bear  to  leave 
his  child  alone  in  the  world.  In  the  foolishness 
of  his  love  he  would  have  trusted  in  the  strength 
of  his  own  arm  to  shield  her  in  the  battle  ;  he 
could  not  trust  her  hopefully  to  the  arm  of  God. 
He  prayed  for  her  night  and  day,  during  the  last 
week  of  his  illness;  wliile  she  was  praying  pas- 
sionately, almost  madly,  thnt  he  might  be  spared 
to  her,  or  that  she  might  die  with  him.  Better 
for  her,  according  to  all  mortal  reasoning,  if  she 
had.  Happier  for  her,  a  thousand  times,  if  she 
could  have  died  as  she  wisflcd  to  die,  clinging  to 
her  father's  breast. 

The  blow  fell  at  last  upon  those  two  loving 
hearts.  These  were  the  awful  shadows  of  death 
that  shut  his  child's  face  from  John  Marchmont's 
fading  sight.  His  feeble  arms  groped  here  and 
there  for  her  in  that  dim  and  awful  obscuritj  . 

Yes,  this  was  death.    The  narrow  tract  of 


yellow  sand  had  little  by  little  grown  narrower 
and  narrower.  The  dark  and  cruel  waters  were 
closing  in;  the  feeble  boat  went  down  into  the 
darkness;  and  Mary  stood  alone,  with  her  dead 
father's  hand  clasped  in  hers — the  last  feeble 
link  v/hich  bound  her  to  the  Past — looking 
blankly  forward  to  an  unknown  Future. 


CHAPTER  XL 

THE    DAY    OF    DESOLATION. 

Yes;  the  terrible  day  had  come.  Mary  March- 
mont roamed  hither  and  thither  in  the  big  gaunt 
rooms,  up  and  down  the  long  dreary  corridors, 
white  and'ghostlike  in  her  mute  anguish,  while 
the  undertaker's  men  were  busy  in  her  father's 
chamber,  and  while  John's  widow  sat  in  the 
study  below,  writing  business  letters.,  and  making 
all  necessary  arrangements  for  the  funeral. 

In  those  early  days  no  one  attempted  to  com- 
fort the  orphan.  There  was  something  more 
terrible  than  the  loudest  grief  in  the  awful  t|uiet 
of  the  girl's  anguish.  The  wan  eyes,  looking 
wearily  out  of  a  white  haggard  face,  that  seemed 
drawn  and  contracted  as  if  by  some  hideous 
physical  torture,  wcire  tearless.  Except  the  one 
long  wail  of  despair  which  had  burst  from  her 
lips  in  the  av/ful  moment  of  her  father's  death- 
agony,  no  cry  of  sorrow,  no  utterance  of  pain, 
had  given  relief  to  Mary  Marchmont's  suffering. 

She  suffered,  and  was  still.  She  shrank  away 
from  all  human  companionship;  she  seemed 
specially  to  avoid  the  society  of  her  step-mother. 
She  locked  the  door  of  her  room  upon  all  who 
would  have  intruded  on  her,  and  flung  herself 
upon  the  bed,  to  lie  there  in  a  dull  stupor  for 
hour  after  hour.  But  v/hen  the  twilight  was 
gray  in  the  desolate,  corridors,  the  wretched  girl 
wandered  out  into  the  gallery  on  which  her 
father's  room  opened,  and  hovered  near,  that 
solemn  death-chamber — fearful  to  go  in,  fearful 
to  encounter  the  watchers  of  the  dead,  lest  they 
should  torture  her  l»y  their  hackneyed  expressions 
of  sympathy,  lest  they  should  agonize  her  by 
their  commonplace  talk  of  the  lost. 

Once  during  that  brief  interval,  while  the 
coffm  still  held  terrible  tenancy  of  the  death- 
chamber,  the  girl  wandered  in  the  dead  of  the 
night,  when  all  but  the  hired  wiatchers  were 
asleep,  to  the  broad  landing  of  the  oaken  stair- 
case, and  into  a  deep  recess  formed  by  an  em- 
bayed window  that  opened  over  the  great  stone 
porch  which  sheltered  the  principal  western  en- 
trance to  Marchmont  Towers. 

The  window  had  been  left  open;  for  even  in 
the  bleak  autumn  weather  the  atmosphere  of  the 
great  house  seeme.d  hot  and  oppressive  to  its 
living  inmates,  whose  spirits  were  weighed  donn 
by  a  vague  sense  of  something  akin  to  terror  of 
the  Awful  Presence  in  that  Lincolnshire  man- 
sion. Mary  had  wandered  to  this  open  window, 
scarcely  knowing  •■vyhither  she  went,  after  re- 
maining for  a  long  time  on  her  knees  by  Ujc 
threshold  of  licr  father's  room,  with  her  head 
resting  against  the  oaken  panel  of  the  door — 
not  praying;  why  should  sh#  pray  now,  unless 
her  prayers  could  have  restored  the  dead  .'  She 
had  come  out  upon  the  wide  staircase,  and  past 
the  ghostly  pictured  faces  that  looked  grimly 
down  upon  her  from  the  oaken  wainscot  again&t 


JOHN   MARCIIMONT'S  LEGACY. 


:}0 


which  they  hung;  she  had  wandered  here  in  the  ^  sion  of  by  strange  hands.  Cromwells  and  Napo- 
diiii  gray  light  :  there  was  liglit  somewhere  in  ;  leons  die,  and  the  earth  reels  for  a  moment,  only 
the  sky,  but  only  a  shadowy  and  inicertain  glim- )  to  be  '  alive  and  bold  '  again  in  the  next  instant, 
mer  ol'  fading  starlight  or  coming  dawn.  And  to  the  astonishment  of  poets,  and  the  calm  satis- 
she  stood  now  with  her  head  resting  against  one  ',  faction  of  philosophers;  and  ordinary  people  eat 
of  the  angles  of  the  massive  stone-work,  looking  their  breakfasts  while  the  telegi-am  lies  beside 
out  of  the  open  window.  them  upon  the,  table,  and  the  ink  in  which  Mr. 

The  morning  which  was  already  glimmering  !  Renter's  message  is  recorded  is  still  wet  from  the 
dimly  in  the  eastern  sky  behind  Marchmont  machine  in  Prititing-House  Square. 
Towers  was  to  witness  poor  John's  funeral.  Anguish  and  despair  more  terrible  than  any  of 
For  nearly  six  days  Mary  Marchmont,  had  the  tortures ^he  had  felt  yet  took  possession  of 
avoided  alliiuman  companionship;  for  nearly  six  Mary  Marchmont's  breast.  For  the  lirst  time 
days  she  ha*  shunned  all  human  sympathy  and  ;  she  looked  out  at  her  own  future.  Until  now  she 
comfort.  During  all  that  time  slie  had  never  ,  had  thought  only  of  her  father's  death.  She  had 
eaten,  except  when  forced  to  do  so  by  her  step- ;  despaired  because  he  was  gone;  but  she  had  never 
mother,  who  had  visited  her  from  time  to  time,  ;  contemplated  the  horror  other  future  life — a  life 
and  had  insisted  upon  sitting  by  her  bedside  while  ;  in  which  she  was  to  exist  wittiout  him.  A  sudden 
she  took  the  food  that  had  been  brought  to  her.  '  agony,  that  was  near  akin  to  madness,  seized 
Heaven  knows  how  often  the  girl  had  slept  dur-  upon  this  girl,  in  whose  sensitive  nature  affection 
ing  those  six  dreary  days;  but  her  feverish  slum-  had  always  had  a  morbid  intensity.  She  shud- 
bers  had  brought  her  very  little  rest  or  refresh-  dered  with  a  wild  dread  at  the  blank  prospect  of 
nient.  They  had  brought  her  nothing  but  cruel  <  that  horrible  future;  and  as  she  looked  out  at  the 
dreams,  in  which  h'Cr  father  was  still  alive;  in  ■  wide  stone  steps  below  the  window  from  which 
which  she  felt  his  thin  arms  clasped  round  her  she  was  leaning,  for  the  lirst  time  in  her  young 
neck,  his  faint  and  fitful  bi-eath  warm  upon  her  '  life  the  idea  of  self-destruction  Hashed  across  her 
cheek.  '■  mind. , 

A  great  clock  in  the  stables  struck  five  Avhile  '  She  uttered  a  cry,  a  shrill,  almost  unearthly 
Mary  Marchmont  stood  looking  out  of  .the  Tudor-  cry,  that  was,  notvvithstanding,  low  and  feeble, 
window.  The  broad  gray  flat  before  the  house  and  clambered  suddenly  upon  the  broad  stone 
stretched  far  away,  melting  into  the  shadowy  J  sill  of  the  Tudor  casement.  She  wanted  tolling 
sky.  The  pale  stars  grew  paler  as  Mary  logked  ;  herself  down  and  dash  her  brains  out  upon  the 
at  tfiem;  the  black  water  pools  began  to  glimmer  J  stone  steps  below;  but  in  the  utter  prostration 
faintly  under  the  widening  patch  of  light  in  the  \  of  her  state,  she  was  too  feeble  to  do  this,  and 
eastern  sky.  The  girl's  senses  were  bewildered  /  she  fell  backward  and  dropped  in  a  heap  upon 
by  her  suffering — her  head  was  light  and  dizzy.      (  the  polished  oaken  flooring  of  the  recess,  striking 

Her  father's  death  had  .made  so  sudden  and  '  her  forehead  as  she  fell.  She  lay  there  uncon- 
terrible  a  break  in  her  existence,  that  she  could  ;  scions  until  nearly  seven  o'clock,  when  one  of 
•  scarcely  believe  the  world  had  not  come  to  an  *  the  worten-servants  found  her,  and  carried  her 
end,  with  all  the  joys  and  sorrows  of  its  inhabi-  ?  ofl'  to  her  own  room,  where  she  suH'ered  herself 
tants.  Would  there  be  anything  more  after  to-  i  to  be  undressed  and  put  to  bed. 
morrow?  she  thought;  would  the  blank  days  and  |  Mary  Marchmont  did  not  speak  until  the  good- 
nights  go  monotonously  on]  when  the  story  that  |  hearted  Lincolnshire  house-maid  had  laid  her  in 
had  given  them  a  meaning  and  a  purpose  had  f  her  bed,  and  was  going  away  to  tell  Olivia  of  the 
come  to  its  dismal  end.'  Surely  not; surely,  after 
those  gaunt  iron'  gates,  far  away  across  the 
swampy  waste  that'Was  called  a  park,  had  closed 
upon  her  father's  funeral  train,  the  world  would 
come  to  an  end,  and  there  would  be  no  more 
time  or  space.  I  think  she  really  believed  this  in 
the  semi-delirium  into  which  she  had  fallen 
within  the  last  hour.  She  believed  that  all  v/ould 
be  over,  and  that  she  and  her  despair  would  melt 


tate  In  which  she  had  found  the  orphan  girl. 

'Don't  tell  my  step-mother  any  thing  about 
me,  Susan,'  she  said;  'I  think  1  was  mad  last 
night.' 

This  speech  frightened  the  house-maid,  and  she 
went  straight  to  the  widow's  room.  Mrs.  March- 
mont, always  an  early  riser,  had  been  up  and 
dressed  for  some  time,  and  went  at  once  to  look 
at  her  step-daughter, 
away  into  the  emptiness  that  was  to  engulf  the  ^  She  found  Mary  very  calm  and  reasonable, 
universe  after  her  father's  funeral.  \  There  was  no  trace  of  bewilderment  or  delirium 

Then  suddenly  the  full  reality  of  her  grief  ^  now  in  her  manner;  and  when  the  principal 
flashed  upon  her  with  horrible  force.  She  ^  doctor  of  Swampington  came,  a  couple  of  hours 
clasped  her  hands  updh  her  forehead,  and  a  low  >  afterward,  to  look  at  the  young  heiress,  he  de- 
faint  cry  broke  from  her  while  lyis.  >  dared  that  there  was  no  cause  for  any  alarm. 
It  was  not  all  over.  Time  and  space  would  |  The  young  lady  was  sensitive,  morbidly  sensi- 
not  be  annihilated.  The  weary,  monotonous,  '■  tive,  he  said,  and  must  be  kept  very  quiet  for  a 
workaday  world  would  still  goon  upon  its  course,  \  few.  days,  and  watched  by  some  one  wtiose  pres- 
^'otldng  would  be  changed.  The  great  gaunt  {  ence  would  not  annoy  her.  If  there  was  any 
stone  mansion  would  still  stand,  and  the  dullj/firlof  her  own  age  whom  she  had  ever  shown 
machinery  of  its  interior  would  still  go  on  :  the  ^  a  predilcctfon  for,  that  girl  would  be  the  fittest 
same  hours;  the  same  customs;  the  same  iiillexi- <  companion  for  her  just  now.  After  a  few  days 
ble  routine.  John  Marchmont  would  be  carried  \  it  would  be  advisable  that  she  sliould  have  change 
out  of  tHe  house  that  had  ov.ned  him  master,  to  <  of  air  and  change  of  scene.  She  must  not  be 
lie  in  the  dismal  vault  under  Kemberling  Church;  <  allowed  to  t)rood  continuously  on  lier  father's 
and  the  world  in  which  he  had  made  so  little  stir  '  death.  The  doctor  repeated  this  last  injunction 
would  go  on  without  him.  The  casy-cliair  in  j  more  than  once.  It  was  most  important  that  she 
whir.h  he  had  been  wont  to  sit  would  he  wheeled  i  should  not  give  way  too  perpetually  to  her  grief, 
away  from  its  corner  by  the  lire-[)lace  in  the  ?  So  Mary  Marchmont  lay  in  lier  (farkcncd  room 
western  drawing-room.  Tlie  papers  in  his  study  i  while  her  father's  funeral  train  was  moring slowly 
would  be  sorted  and  put  away,  or  taken  po«ses- j  away  from  the  western  entrance.     It  happened 


40 


JOHN  MARCHMONT'S  LEGACY. 


^ 


that  Mary's  apartments  looked  out  into  the  qiiad-/  for  a  brief  space  to  that  idleness  which  was  so 
rangle.and  she  heard  none  of  the  subdued  sounds  ^  unusual  to  her. 

which  attended  the  departure  of  that  solemn  pro- ;  .A  fire  burned  in  the  low  grate  at  her  feet,  and 
cession.  In  her  weakness  she  had  grown  sub-/ a" rough  cur— half  shepherd's  dog,  half  Scotch 
missive  to  the  will  of  others.  She  thought  this  ^  deer-hound,  who  had  been  fond  of  John,  but 
feebleness  and  exhaustion  gave  warning  of  her  i;  was  not  fond  of  Olivia — lay  at  the  further  ex- 
approaching  death.  Pier  prayers  w^uld  be  granted  ;  tremity  of  the  hearth-rug,  watching  her  suspi- 
after  all.     This    anguish   and   despair  would  be^ciously. 

but  of  brief  duration,  and  she  woirtd  ere  long  be)  Mrs.  Marchmont's  personal  appearance  had 
carried  to  the  vault  under  Kemberling  Church,/ not  altered  during  the  two  years  of  her  married 
lo  lie  beside  her  father  in  the  black  stillness  of  Hife.  Her  face  was  thin  and  haggard,  but  it 
that  dreadful  place.  /  had  been  thin  and  haggard  before  heM  marriage, 

Mrs.  Marchmont  strictly  obeyed  the  doctor's  |  And  yet  no  one  could  deny  that  tne  face  was 
injunctions,  A  girl  of  seventeen,  the  daughter  /  handsome,  and  the  features  beautifully  chiseled, 
of  a  small  tenant  farmer  near  the  Towers,  had  ^  But  the  gray  eyes  were  hard  and  cold,  the  line 
been  a  spGcial  favorite  with  Mary,  who  was  not)  of  the  faultless  eyebrows  gave  a  stern  expression 
apt  to  make  friends  Smong  strangers.  This  girl, '  to  the  countenance;  the  thin  lips  were  rigid'  and 
Hester  Pollard,  was  sent  for,  and  came,  willingly  ^compressed.  The  face  wanted  both  light  and 
and  gladly,  to  watch  her  young  patroness.  She;  color.  A  sculptor  copying  it  line  by  line,  would 
brought  her  needle-Work  with  her,  and  sat  near )  have  produced  a  beautiful  head.  A  painter 
the  window,  busily  employed,  while  Mary  lay )  must  have  lent  his  own  glowing  tints  if  he 
shrouded  by  the  pure  white  curtains  of  the  bed. )  wished  to  represent  Olivia  Marchmont  as  a  lovely 
All  active  services  necessary  for  the  comfort  of /woman. 

the  invalid  were  performed  by  Olivia  or  her  own  |  Her  pale  face  looked  paler,  and  her  dead  black 
special  attendant — an  old  servant  who  had  lived  .;  hair  blacker,  against  the  blank  whiteness  of  her 
with  the  Rector  ever  since  his  daughter's ,birtli,  (  widow's  cap.  Her  mourning  dress  clung  closely 
and  had  only  left  -him  to  follow  that  daughter  to  '/  to  her  tall,  slender  figure.  She  was  little  more 
Marchmont  Towers  after  her  marriage.  So  /  than  twenty-five,  but  she  looted  a  woman  of 
Hester  Pollard  had  nothirtg  to  do  but  to  keep  very  /  thirty.  It  had  been  her  misfortune  to  look  older 
(|uiet,  and  patiently  await  the  time  when  Mary  /  than  she  was  from  a  very  early  period  in  her 
might  be  disposed  to  fcilk  to  her.     The  farmer's  /  life..  ;; 

daughter  was  a  gentle,  unobtrusive  creature,  very  )'  Sh'e  had  not  loved  her  husband  when'^ie 
well  fitted  for  the_duty  imposed  upon  her.  /  married  him,  nor  had  she  ever  felt  for  him  that 

/  love  which  in  most  womanly  natures  grows  out 
'  ♦■»-» .;  of  custom   awd  duty.     It  was  not  in  h^r  nature 

'<;  to  love.    Her  passionate  idolatry  of  her  boyish 

CHAPTER  XII.  '<  cousin   had   been   the   one  solitary  aflection  that 

*  '/  had  ever  held  a  place  in  her  cold  heart.     All  the 

PAUL.  v  fire  of  her  nature  had  been  concentrated  in  this 

^  one  folly,  this  one  passion,  against  which  only 
Omyfa  Marchmont  sat  in  her  late  husband's?  heroic  self-tortures  had  been  able  to  prevail, 
study  while  John's  funeral  train  v/as  moving!;  Mrs.  Marchmont  felt  no  grief,  therefore,  at 
slowly  along  under  the  misty  October  slcy.  A /her  husband's  loss.  She  had  felt  the  shock  of 
long  stream  of  carriages  followed  the  stately  >  his  death,  and  the  painful  oppression  of  his  dead 
hearse,  with  its  four  black  horses,  and  its  volu-/  presence  in  the  house.  She  had  faithfully  nursed 
minous  draperies  of  rich  velvet,  and  nodding /him  through  many  illnesses;  she  had  patiently 
|)liimes  that  were  damp  and  heavy  with  the  au-.;  tended  him  until  the  very  last;  she  had  done  her 
tnnin  atmosphere.  The  unassuming  master  of  /  duty.  And  now,  for  the  first  time,  she  had  lei- 
Marehmont  Towers  had  vron  for  himself  a  quiet/  sure  to  contemplate  the  past,  and  look  forward  to 
popularity  among  the  simple  country  gentry,/' the  future.  t'i4! 
and  the  Gest  families  in  Lincolnshire  had  sent/  So  far  this  woman  had  fulfilled  the  task  whicb 
fieir  chiefs  to  do  honor  to  his -Ijurial,  or  at  the/ she  had  taken  upon  herself;  she  had  been  true 
least  their  empty  carriages  to  represent  them  at/  and  loyal  to  the  vow  she  had  made  before  God's 
that  mournful  ceremonial.  Olivia  sat  in  her/ altar,  in  the  church  of  Swampington.  Ahd  now 
dead  husband's  favorite  cliamber.  Her  head  >  she  was  free.  No,  not  quite  free;  for  she  had  a 
lay  back  upon- the  cushion  of  the  roomy  morocco-/ heavy  burden  yet  upon  her  hands— the  solemn 
covered  arm-chair  in  v/hicii  he  had  so  often  sat.  /  charge  of  her  step-daughtet  during  the  girl's  mi- 
She  had  been  working  hard  that  morning,  and  /  iioriiy.  But  as  j-egarded  marriage  vows  and 
indeed  every  morning  since  John  Marchmont's/ marnage-ties  she  was  free, 
death,  sorting  and  arranging  papers,  with  the  aid  5  She  was  free  to  love  Edward  Arundel  again, 
of  Richard  Paulettc,  the  Lincoln's  Inn  solicitor,  I  The  thought  came  upon  her  with  a  rush 
and  James  Gormby,  the  land-steward.  She  knew  |  and  an  impetus  wild  and  strong  as  the  sudden 
that  she  had  been  left  sole  guardian  of  her  step- ;  uprising  of  a  whirlwind,  or  the  loosing  of  a  moun- 
daughter,  and  executrix  to  her  husband's  will;  /  tain  torrent  that  had  long  been  bound.  She  was 
and  she  had  lost  no  time  in  making  herself  ac- '.  a  wife  no  longer.  It  was  no  longer  a  sin  to  think 
(luaitited  with  the  business  details  of  the  estate,  of  the  bright-haired  soldier,  fighting  far  away, 
and  the  full  nature  of  the  responsibilities  in-  She  was  free.  When  Edward  returned  to  Eng- 
trusted  to  her.  ♦  |  land  by-and-by  he  would  find  her  free  once  more; 
She  was  resting  now.  She  had  done  all  that  a  young  widow— young,  handsome,  and  riaji 
could  be  (lone  until  after  the  reading  of  the  will,  enough  to  be  no  bad  prize  for  a  younger  son.  He 
She  had  attended  to  her  step-daughter.  She  had  |  would  come  back  and  find  her  thus;  and  then- 
stood   in    one    of   the   windows  of  the  western  <  and  then 

drawing-room,  watching  the  departure  of  the  j  She  flung  one  of  her  clenched  hands  up  into 
innerjil  cortege :  and  now  she  abandoned  herself  |  the  air,  and  struck  it  on  her  forehead  in  a  sudden 


JOHN  MARCHMONT'S  LEGACY.  « 

paroxism  of  rage.  What  then?  Would  he  love  J  again,  and  crush  put  my  heart  once  more  under 
her'any  better  then  than  he  had  loved  her  two  years  \  the  brazen  wheels  ?  He  will  never  love  me  /' 
ago?  No;  he  would  treat  her  with  the  same  cruel  1  She  writhed;,  this  self-sustained  and  resolute 
indiRerence,  the  same  commonplace  cousinly  i  woman  writhed  in  her  anguish  as  she  uitered 
friendliness  with  which  he  had  mocked  and  tor- 1  those  five  •words,  •  He  will  never  love  me!' 
lured  her  before.  Oh,  shame!  Oh,  misery!  Was;  She  knew  that  they  were  true;  that  of  all  the 
there  no  pride  in  women,  that  there  could  be  one  ]  changes  that  Time  cuuld  bring  to  pass,  it  would 
among  them  fallen  so  low  as  her;  ready  to  grovel  j  never  bring  such  a  change  as  that.  There  was 
atthefeet  of  a  fair-haired  boy,  and  to  cry  aloud,  ;  not  one  element  of  sympathy  between  herself 
•Love  me,  loVe  me!  or  be  pitiful,  and  strike  me  \  and  the  young  soldier;  lliey  I. ad  not  one  thousht 
dead!'  '  !  in  common.     Nay,  more;  tiiere  was  an  absolute 

"^Better  that  John  Marchmont  had  lived  forever.  '  antagonism  between  them',  wliich,  in  spile  of  her 
better  that  Edward  Arundel  should  die  far  away  :  love,  Olivia  fully  recognized.  Over  the  gulf  that 
upon  some  Eastern  battle-field,  before  some  !  separated  them  no  comcidence  of  thought  or 
Afghan  fortress,  than  that  he  should  return  to  j  fancy,  no  sympathetic  emotion,  ever  stretched 
inflict  upon  her  the  same  tortures  she  had  writhed  {  its  clectfic  chain  to  draw  them  together  in  mys- 
under  two  years  before.  ;  terious  unlOii.     They  stood  aloof,  divided  by  the 

'God  grant  that  he  may  never  come  back!' '  width  of  an  intellectual  universe.  The  woman 
she  thought.  'God  gr.int  tMtt  he  may  marry  ;  knew  this,  and  hated  herself  for  her  folly,  scorn- 
out  yonder,  and  live  and  die  there.  God  keep  ,  ing  alike  her  love  and  its  object;  but  her  love 
him  from  me  forevei*  and  forever  in  this  weary  [  was  not  the  less  because  of  her  scoi  n.  It  was  a 
world!'  >  madness,  an  isolated  madness,  which  stood  alone 

And  yet  in  the  next  moment,  with  the  incon- ;  in  her  soul,  and  fought  for  mastery  over  her 
sistency  which  is  the  chief  attribute  of  that  mad- ;  better  aspirations,  her  wiser  ihonghis.  We  are 
ness  we  call  love,  her  thoughts  wandered  away  ;  all  familiar  with  strange  stories  of  wise  and  great 
dreamily  into  visions  of  the  lutnre;  and  she  pic- '  minds  which  have  been  r  dden  by  some  hobgob- 
tured  Edward  Arundel  back  again  at  Swampini:-  {  lin  fanfy.  someone  horrible  monomania, 
ton,  at  Marchmont  Towers.  Her  soul  burst  its  ;  Had  Olivia  Marchmont  lived  a  couple  of  cen- 
bonds  and  expanded,  and  drank  in  the  sunlight  of  ;  tunes  before,  she  would  have  gone  stiaipht  to 
gladness,  and  she  dared  to  think  that  it  miglithfi  (  the  nearest  old  crone,  and  would  have  lioldly  ac- 
80— there  mii^ht  be  happiness  yet  for  her.  H«-  \  cused  the  wretched  woman  of  being  the  author 
had  been  a  boy  when  he  went  back  to  India—  '  of  her  misery 

careless,  indifferent.  He  would  reiurn  a  man—  )  *  You  harbor  a  black  cat  and  other  noisome 
graver,  wiser,  altogether  changed;  changed  so  '  vermin,  mid  you  prowl  about  muttering  to  your- 
much  as  to  love  her,  perhaps.  !  self  o' nights,' .--iie  miglit  have  said.     '  You  have 

She  knew  that,  at  least,  no  rival  had  shut  her  *  been  seeri  to  gather  herbs,  and  you  make  .>^ttange 
cousin's  heart  against  her,  when  and  she  he  had  '.  and  uncanny  si^ns  with  your  palsied  old  fingers, 
been  together  two  years  before.  He  had  been  The  black  cat  is  (he  devil,  your  coHeague;  and 
indifterent  to  her;  but  he  had  been  iiidiHerenf  the  tats  under  voiir  tumbledown  root  are  his 
to  others  also.  There  was  comfort  in  ihatrecol-  imps,  yur  associates  It  is  you  who  have  irj- 
lection.  She  had  questioned  hi^n  very  sharply  siilled  this  horrible  madness  into  my  soul;  for  it 
as  to  his  life  in   India    and  at  Dangeriield,  and    com/(Z  not  come  of  itself.' 

she  had  discovered  no  trace  of  any  tender  mem-  And  Olivia  Marchmont,  being  resolute  and 
ory  of  the  paxt,  no  hint  of  a  cherished  dream  of  strong-minded,  would  not  hnve  rested  until  her 
the  future.  His  heart  had  been,  empty  :  a  boy-'  tormentor  had  paid  ttie  penalty  of  her  foul  work 
ish,  unawakened  heart;  a  temple  in  w;hich  the  at  a  stake  in  the  nearest  market-place, 
niches  were  untenanted,  the  shrine  unhallowed  And,  indc  d,  some  of  our  madnesses  are  so 
by  the  goddess.  mad, ,Some  of  our  follies  are  so  foolish,  that  we 

Olivia  Marchmont  thought  qf  these  things,  miuht  almost  be  forjiiven  if  we  beli<:\ed  that 
For  a  few  moments,  if  only  for  a  few  moments,  there  was  in.  company  of  horrible  crones  meeiing 
she  abandoned  herself  to  such  thoughts  as  these,  somewhere  on  an  invisib  e  Brocktn,  and  making 
She  let  herself  go.  She  released  the  stern  hold  incitntations  for  our  deslriirtion.  Take  up  a 
which  it  was  her  habit  to  keep  upon  her  own  newspapi-r  and  read  iis  hideous  revelations  of 
mind;  and  in  those  hrj^ht  moments  of  delicious  crime  and  follv,  and  it  will  he  scarcely  strange 
abandonment  the  glorious  sunshine  streamed  in  .  if  you  involuiitarilv  wonder  whether  witchcraft 
upon  her  narrow  life,  and  visions  of  a  possible  ■  is  a  dark  fable  of  the  .Middle  Ages,  or  a  dreadful 
future  expanded  before  her  like  a  fairy  pano-  Iriilh  of  the  nineteenth  century.  Must  not  some 
rama,  stretching  away  into  realms  of  vague  light  of  these  miserable  creatures  whose  stories  we 
and  splendor.  It  v,  a*  possible;  it  was  at  least  read  be  7)ossf.W(/;  possesvcd  by  .  ager,  relentless 
possible.  •  (lemons,  who  lash   and  goad   them  onward,  until 

But,  again,  in  the  next  moment  the  mapical  no  black  abyss  of  vice,  no  hideous  guif  of  crime, 
panorama  collapsed  and  shriveled  away,  like  a  is  black  or  hideous  enough  to  content  them  ? 
burning  scroll;  the  fairv  picture.  w>iose  gorgfoui  Olivia  Marchmont  might  have  been  a  good 
coloring  she  had  looked  upon  with  dazzled  eyes,  and  great  woman.  She  had  all  the  elements  of 
almost  blinded  witn  overpowering  glory,  shrank  ;  ureainess.  .Slic  had  genius,  resolution,  an  in- 
into  a  handful  of  blaf-k  ashes, ';<nd  wa*  g.me.  i  domitable  courage,  an  iron  will,  perscverattce, 
The  woman's  strong  nature  reasserted  itself;  <he  ;  self-denial,  ternpei-Bnce,  chastity  But  against 
iron  will  rose  up,  rciidy  1o  do  battle  with  the  ',  all  these  (pialities  was  set  a  'aial  and  foolish  Jove 
foolish  heart.  {  for  a  boy's  lundsome  face  and  frank  ai  d  genial 

•  1  u-ill  not  be  fooled  n  second  time,' she  cried.  !  manner.  If  Edwaid  Arundel  had  never  rros«ed 
•Did  IsulTerso  little  when  1  blotted  that  image  I  her  path,  her  unfettered  soul  might  h»ve  taken 
out  of  my  heart?  Did  the  destruction  of  my  1  the  highest  and  grandest  flight;  but,  chained 
cruel  Juggernaut  cost  me  so  small  an  agony  that  down,  bound,  trammeled  ly^  her  Io>e  for  liim, 
1  must  Dtadi  be  ready  to  elevate  the  false  god  ^  she  groveled  ot)  tbe  earlb  JiKtfhpoiae  (Mioivii  $M^ 
6  .S 


• 

42 


JOHN  MARCUMONT'S  LEGACY. 


wounded  eagle,  wlio  sees  his  fellows  afar  off..'  ray  face  to  w at (^h  the  swallows  skimming  by  Iq 
high  in  the  purple  empyrean,  and  loathes  him  |  the  sun,  or  the  ivy-leaves  flapping  agaiust  the 
self  for  his  impotence.  |;U'all.' 

'  Whijt^tio  1  love  him  for?' she  thought.  '  Is  it'i  She  turned  from  the  glass  with  a  sigh,  and 
because  he  has  blue  eyes  and  chestnut  hair,  with  |  went  out  into  a  dusky  corridor.  The  shutters  of 
wandering  fleams  of  golden  light  in  it?  Is  it 'all  the  principal  roons  and  the  windowyupon 
because  he  has  gentlemanly  manners,  and  is  easy  j  the  grand  staircase  were  still  closed;  the  wide 
and  pleasant;  genial  and  light-hearted  ?  Isitbe-jhall  was  dai;k  and  gloomy",  and  drops  of  rain 
caik'^e  he  has  a  dashing  walk,  and  the  air  of  a  man  (spattered  every  nov/  and  then  iipoii  the  logs  that 
of  fashion?  It  must  be  for  some  of  these  attri- 1  smouldered  on  the  v/ide  o!d-/»sliionfd  liearth. 
butes,  suielv;  for  I  know  nothing  more  in  him.  The  misty  October  morning  had  heralded  a  wet 
Of  all  the  things  he  has  ever  said,  I  can  remem- 1  day. 

ber  nothing — and  i  remember  his  smallest  words,  |  Paul  Marchmont  was  sitting  in  a  lov/  easy- 
Heaven  hfclp  me! — that  any  sensible  person  I  chair  before  a  blazing  fire  in  the  western  draw- 
could  think  worth  repeating.  He  is  brave,  I  j  iog-roomj  the  red  light  full  upon  his  face.  It 
dare  saj',  and  generous;  but  neither  bra'ver  nor  |  was  a  handsome  face,  or  perhaps,  to  s.peak  more  • 
more  generous  than  other  men  of  his  rank  and  \  exactly,  it  v/as  one  of  those  faces  that  are  gene- 
position.'  ^  rally  called  '  intermting;' the  features  were  very 
She  sat  lost  in  such  a  reverie  as  this  while  Jier^  delicate  and  refined,  the  pale  graysh^blue  ^y,es, 
dead  husband  was  being  carried  to  the  roomy  ^  v/ere  shaded  by  long  brown  lashes,  and  ihe  small; 
vault  set  apart  for  the  owners  of  Marclimont  <  and  rather  feminine  nnoufh  was  overshadowed  by 
Towers  and  their  kindred;  she  was  ab-orbed  in  'yn  slender  aubuin  mustache,  under  which  the  rosy 
some  such  thoughts  as  these,  when  one  of  the  j  tint  of  tt'C  lips  was  very  visible.  But  it  was 
grave,  gray-headed  old.  servants  brought  her  a  ^  Paul  Marchmonl's  hair  which  gave  a  peculiarity 
card  upon  a  heavysalver  emblazoned  with  theUo  a'  personal  appearance  ihat  might  otherwise 
Marchmont  arms.  •  ■•  have  been  in  no  way  out  of  the  common.  This 
Olivia  took  the  card,  almost  mechanically.  ;  hair,  fine,  silky;  and  luxuriant,  was  wJiitf.,  al- 
Thcre  are  some  thoughts  which  carry  us  a  long  j;  though  iss  owner  could  not  have  been  more  than 
way  from  the  ordinary  occupations  of  everyday  j;  thirty-seven  years  of  age. 

life,  and  it  is  not  easy  to  return  to  the  dull  jog- ;,'  The  uninvited  guest  rose  as  Olivia  Marchmont 
trot  routine.     The  widow  passed  her  left  hand  j  entered  the  room; 

across  her  brow  before  she  looked  at  the  name  ^  '  I  have  the  honor  of  speaking  to  my  cousin's 
inscribed  upon  the  card  it>her  right.  <  widow,'  hp  said,  with  a  courteous  smile. 

'  Mr.  Paul  Marchmont.'  ',     'Yes;  I  am  Mrs.  Marchmont.' 

She  started  as  she  read  the  name.  Paul  '<  Olivia  seated  her.~-e  f  near  the  fire.  The  wet 
Marchmont!  She  remembered  what  her  bus- 'day  v/as  cold  and  cheerless,  the  dark  house  dis- 
band had  told  her  of  this  man.  It  was  not  much:  {nial  and  chilly.  Mrs.  Marchmont  shivered. as 
for  John's  feelings  on  the  subject  of  his  cousin  i;she  extended  her  long  thin  hand  to  the  blaze,' 
bad  been  of  so  vague  a  nature  that  he  had  <  'And  you  are  doubtless  surprised  to  see  me 
shrunk  from  expounding  them  to  his  stern,  prac- <; here,  Mrs.  Marchmont,' the  artist  said,  leaning 
tical  wife.  He  had  told  her,  therefore,  that  he;;  upon  the  back  of  his  chair  in  the!  easy  attitude 
did  not  very  much  care  for  Paul,  and  that  he  /  of  a  man  who  means  to  make  himself  at  home  ; 
wished  no  intimacy  ever  to  arise  between  the  5 '  but  believe  me,  that  although  I  never  took  ad- 
artist  and  Mary;  but  he  had  said  nothing  more '  vantage  of  a  very  friendly  letter  written  to  me 
than  this.  <  by  poor  John— ' 

'  The  gentleman   is  waiting  to  see  me,  I  sup-^;      Paul  M'archmont  paused  for  a  moment,  kecj- 
pose?'  Mrs.  Marchmont  said.  (  ing  sharp  v.'atch  upon  the  widow's  face;  but  no 

•Yes,  ma'am.     The  gentfcman  came  to  Kem-|  sorrowful  expression,  no.  evidence   of  emotion, 
berling  by  the  IT. 5  train  from  London,  and  has'  was  visible  in  that  inflexible  countenance, 
driven  over  here  in  one  of  Harris's  fiys  '  ';      'Altliough,  I   repeat,  I   never -availed  myself 

'  Tell  him  I  will  come  toiiim  immedia.tcly.     Is/  of  a  sort  of  general  invitation  to  come  and  shoot 
he  in  the  drawing-room?'  -his  par,tridges,  or  borrow  money  of  him,  or  take 

'Yes,  ma'am.'  '/  advantage  of  any  of  those  other  little  privileges 

The  man  bowed  and  left  the  room.  Olivia  *,  generally  claimed  by  a  ntfen's  poor  relations,  it 
lingered  by  the  fire-place  with  her  foot  on  th(  j;  is  not  to  be  supposed,  my  dear  Mrs.  Marchmont, 
fender,  her  elbow  resting  on  the  carved-oaU  j  ihat  I  was  altogether  forgttful  of  either  March- 
chimney-piece.  !  mont  Towers  or  its  owner,  my  cousin.  I  did  not 
•Paul  Marchmont!  He  has  come  to  the  fu-^  come  here,  because  I  am  a  hard-working  man, 
neral,  I  suppose.  And  he  expects  to  find  him-^  and  the  idleness  of  cw  cointry  house  would  have 
self  mentioned  in  the  will,  I  dare  say.  Ithink,  /  been  ruin  to  me.  Bull  heard  sometimes  of  my 
from  what  my  husband  told  me,  he  will  be  dis- '  cousin  from  neighbors  of  his.' 
appointed  in  that.  Paul  Marchmont!  If  Mar}  ;  'Neighbors'!'  lepeated  Olivia,  in  a  tone  of 
were  to  die  unmarried,  this  man  or  his  sisters  j -urprise.  „ 
would  inherit  Marchmont  Towers.'  i  '  Y'es;  people  near  enough  to  be  called  neigh- 
There  was  a  looking-glass  over  the  mantle- <  hors  in  the  country.  My  sister  lives  at  Stan- 
piece;  a  narroWj  oblong  glass,  in  an  old-fash-  :■  fie!^.  She  is  married  to  a  surgeon  who  prac- 
ioned  carved-ebony  frame,  which  was  inclineo  I  lices  in  that  delightful  town.  You  know  Stan- 
forward.     Olivia   looked   musingly  in  this  glass,  |  field,  of  course?' 

and  smoothed  the  heavy  bands  of  dead-black  haii  ?      '  No,  I  have  never  been  there.     It  is  five-and- 
uniler  her  cap.  .  <  vventy  miles  from  here.' 

'  There  are  people  who  would  call  me  hand  j  '  indeed  !  too  far  for  a  drive,  then.  Yes,  my 
some,'  she  thought,  as  she  looked  with  a  mood}  ;  -iister  lives  at  Stanfield.  John  never  knew  much 
frown  at  her  imagfc  in  the  glass;  «  and  yet  I  have  <  of  her  in  his  adversity,  and  therefore  maybe  for- 
seen  Edward  Arundel's  eyes  wander  away  from  ^g.ven  if  he  forgot  her  ia  his  prosperity.    But  she 


JOHN  MARCHMQNTS  LEGACY. 


43 


did  not  forget  liim.  We  poor  relations  have  ex- 
fiCllent  memories.  The  Stanfield  people  havef  so 
little  to  talk  about,  that  it  is  ^c^arcely  any  wonder 
if  they  are  inquisitive  ■about  the  nffairs  of  the 
gratid' country  gentry  round  about,  them.  I 
heard  of  John  throuc;'!  my  sister.  1  heard  of  his 
marriat!;e  through  her  ' — he  bov/ed  to  Olivia  as 
he  said  this — 'and  ]  wrote- immediately  to  con- 
gratulate liim  upon  that  happy  erent,'  he  bowed 
again  here;  '  and  it  was  through  I.avinia  Wes- 
ton, my  sister,  that  1  heard  of  poor  John's  death, 
one  day  before  the  announcement  appeared  in 
the  columns  of  the  Thne^.  I  am  sorry  to  find 
that  I  am  too  late  for  the  funeral.  I  could  have 
wished  to  have  paid  my  cousin  the  last  tribute  of 
esteem  that  one  man  can  pay  another.' 

♦You  vtrould  wish  to  hear  the  reading  of  the 
will.'*  Olivia  said,  interrogatively. 

Paul  Marchmortt  shrug<;ed  his  shoulders,  with 
a  low,  careles*  laugh;  not  an  indecorous  laugh — 
nothing  that  this  man  ditl  or  said  ever  appeared 
ill  advised  or  out  of  place.  The  people  who  dis- 
liked him  were  compelled  to  acknowledge  that 
they  disliked  him  unreasonably,  and  very  much 
on  the  Doctor-Fell  principle;  for* it  was  impossi- 
ble to'take  objectiou  to  either  his  n^anners  or  his 
actions. 

♦  That  important  legal  document  can  have  very 
little  interest  for  me,  my  dear  Mrs.  Marchmont,' 
he  said,  gayly.  'John  can  have  had  nothing  to 
leave  me.  1  am  too  well  acquainted  with  the 
terms  of  my  grandfather's  will  to  have  nny  mer- 
cenary hopes  in  coming  to  Marchmont  Towers.' 

He  stopped,  and  looked  at  Qlivia's  impassable 
face. 

'  What  on  earth  could  havfe  induced  this  wo- 
man to  marry  my  coiisin.-'he  thought.  'John 
could  have  had  very  little  to  leave  his  widow.'  ,• 

He  played  witJi  the  jingling  ornaments  at  his 
watch-chain,  looking  reflectively , at  the  fire  for 
some  moments.  * 

'  Miss  Marchmont — my  coiusin,  Mary  March- 
mont, 1  should  say — bears  her  loss  pretty  well,  I 
hoper' 

Olivia  shrugged  her  shoulders. 

'  I  am  sorry  to  say  that  my  step-daughter  dis- 
plays very  little  Ctiristian  resignation,' she  said. 

And  then  a  spirit  within   her  amse  and  whis-  : 
pered,  with   a   mocking   voice,  '  What   resigna- 
tion do  yiu  show — you,  who  shou'd  be  so  good  a 
Christian  ?     How  have  yon  learned  to  school  your 
rebellious  heart?'. 

-     •  My  cousin  is  very  young,'  Paul  Marchmont 
said,  presently. 

'  She  was  fifteen  last  Juiy.' 

'Fifteen!     Very   young    to  he  the  owner  of- 
Marchmont  Towers    and   an   income  of  eleven 
thousand  a  year,'  returned  the  artist.    He  walked 
to  one  of  the  long  windows,  and  drawing  aside  / 
the  edge  of  the  blind   looked  out  upon  the  stone 
terrace  and  t!ie  wide  flats  before  the  mansion.  ■ 
The  rftin  dripped  and   splashed  upon  the  stone  } 
steps;  tine  rain-drops   hung  upon  the  grim  adorn-  ' 
mcnts   of  the   carved    balustrade,   soalnnrg   into  ' 
)nos?-grown     escutcheons     and    half-obliterated  ! 
coats-of-arms.     The  weird  willows  by  the  pools  ; 
far  away,  and  a  solitary  poplar  near  the  house, , 
looked  jaunt  and  black  against  Iho  dismal  gray  ; 
sky. 

Paul  Marchmont  dropped  the  blind,  and  turned 
away  Irom   the   gloomy  landscape  with  a  half- 
contemptuous  gesture.  '  I  don'i  know  that  I  envy 
my  cousin  after  all,' he  said;  'the  place  is  as  J 
dreary  as  Tcnnyeon'*  Moatod  Grange' 


i      There  was  the  sound  of  wheels  on  the  carriage- 
drive  before  the  terrace,  and  presently  a  subdued 
murmur  of  hushed  voices  in  the  hall.     Mr.  Rlch- 
<  aid  Pa^ulelte,  and  the  two  medical  men  who  had 
;  attended  John   Mi*chniont,  had  returned  to  the 
;  Towers   for  the   reading  of  the   will.      Hubert 
;  Arundel  had  returned  with   tliem;  but  the  other 
followers  in   the  funeral  train  had  departed  to 
I  their  several   homes.     The   undertaker   and  his 
]  men  had  made  their  Avay  back  to  Marchmont  by 
the  side-entrance,  and  wrre  making  themselves 
very  comfortable  after  the  fulfilhnent  of  their 
,  nwurnful  duties. 

\  The  will  was  to  be  read  in  the  dining-room; 
and  Mr.  Paulette  a'nd  the  clerk  who  had  accbm- 
>paniedhim  to  Marchmont  Towers  were  already 
5  seatcil  at-one  end  of  the  long  carved-oak  table, 
(  busy  with  their  papers  and  pens  and  ink,  assum- 
,  ing  an  importance  tifc  occasion  did  not  require.. 
Olivia  went  out  into  the  hall  to  speak  to  her 
;  father. 

,^  'You  will  find  Mr.  Marchmont's  solicitor  in 
the  dining-room,'  she  said  to  Paul,  who  waS 
looking  at  some  of  the  old  pictures  on  the  draw- 
ing-room walls. 

A  large.fire  was  blazing  in  the  wide  grate  at 
the  end  of  the  dining-room.  The  blinds  had 
'  been  drawn  up.  There  was  no  longer  need  that 
the  hous'e  should  be  wrapped  in  darkness.  The 
Awful  Presence  had  departed;  and  such  light  as 
there  v.-as  in  the  gloomy  October  sky  was  fi-ee  to 
enter  the  rooms  v/hich  Ihe  death  of  one  quiet,  un- 
obtrusive creature  had  made  for  a  time  desolate. 
,  There  was  no  sound  in  the  room  but  the  low 
'  voices  of  the  two  doctors  talking  of  their  late 
patient  in  under  tones  near  the  fire-place,  and 
the  occasional  fluttering  of  the  papers  under 
the  lawyer's  hand.  The  clerk,  wh9  sat  respect- 
fully a  little  way  behind  his  master,  and  upon 
the  very  edge  of  his  ponderous  morocco-covered 
chair,  had  been  wont  to  give  John  Alarchmont 
his  orders,  and  to  lecture  him  for  ^ing  tardy 
with  his  work  a  few  years  before,  in  the  Lin- 
coln's Inn  oflice.  He  was  wondering  now  whe- 
ther he  should  find  himself  remembered  in  the 
•dead  man 's  will,  to  the  extent  of  a  mourning-ring 
or  an  old-fashioned  silver  fcuuff-box,    . 

Richard  Paulette  looked  up  as  Olivia  and  her 
father  entered  the  room,  followed  at  a  little  dis- 
tance by  Paul-  Marchmont,  wno  walked  at  a  lei- 
surely pace,  lookmg  at  the  carved  doorways  and 
the  pictures  against  the  wainscot,  and  appearing, 
as  he  had  declared  himself,  very  little  concerned 
in  the  important  business  about  to  be  transacted. 

'  We  shall  want  Miss  Marchmont  here,  if  jrou 
please,'  Mr.  Paulette  said,  as  he  looked  up  from 
his  papers.' 

'  Is  it  necessary  that  she  should  be  present?'- 
Olivia  asked. 

'  Very  necessary.' 

•  But  she  is  ill ;  she  is  in  bed. ' 

'  It  is,  most  important  that  she  should  be  here 
when  the  will  is  read.  Perhaps  Mr.  Bolton '— 
the  lawyer  looked  toward  one  of  the  medical 
men— 'will  see.  He  will  be  able  to  tell  us 
whether  Miss  Marchmont  can  safely  come  cown 
stairs.' 

Mr.  Bolton,  the  Swampington  surgeon  who 
had  attended  Mary  that  morning,  left  the  room 
with  Olivia.  The  lawyer  rose  and  warmed  his 
hands  at  the  blaze,  talking  to  Hubert  Arundel 
and  the  London  physician  as  he  did  so.  Paul 
Marchmont,  who  bad  not  been  introduced  to  anj 
one,  occupied  himself  eatirely  with  the  picturM 


44  JOHN  MARCHMONT'S  LEG  ACT. 

for  a  little  time;  and  then,  strolling  over  to  the  joul  the  aid  of  a  lawyer,  and  was  only  witnessed 
fire-place,  fell  into  conversation  with  the  three  I  by  John's  housekeeper  and  by  Corson,  the  old 
gentlemen,  contriving,  adroitly  enough,  to  let  ;  valet,  a  confidential  servant,  who  bad  attended 
them  know  who  he  was.  Tl^^.  lawyer  looked  at  ;  upon  Mr.  Marchmont's  predecessor, 
him  with  some  interest — a  professional  interest,  j  Richard  Paulette  began  to  read;  and  Mary,  for 
no  doubt;  for  Mr.  Paulette  had  a  copy  of  old  ;  the  first  time  since  she  had  taken  her  seat  near 
Philip  Marchmont's  will  in  one  of  the  japanned  ,  the  fire,  lifted  her  .eyes,  and  listened  breath- 
deed-boxes,  inscribed  with  j)oor  John's  name.  ;  lessly,  with  faintly  tremulous  lips.  Olivia  sat 
He  knew  that  this  easy-going,  pleasant-man- '  near  her  step-daughter;  and  Paul  Marchmont 
iiered,  white-haired  young  gentleman  was  the  stood  in  a  careless  attitude  at  one  corner  of  the 
Paul  Marchmont  named  in  that  document,  and  fire-place,  with  his  shoulders  resting  against  the 
stood  next  in  succession  to  Mary.  Mary  might !  massive  oaken  chimney-piece.  The  dead  man's 
die  unmarried,  and  it  was  as  well  to  be  friendly  (  will  ran  thus  : 

and  civil  to  a  man  who  was  at  least  a  possible  \      '  1    John   Marchmont  of  Marchmont  Towers 
client.  ,  declare   this   to   be   my  last  will  and  testament 

The  four  gentlemen  stood  upon  the  broad  :' Being  persuaded  that  my  end  is  approaching  I 
Turkey  hearth-rug  for  some  time  talking  of  the  ;  feel  my  dear  little  daughter  Mary  will  be  left 
dead  man,  the  wet  vi'eather,  the  cold  autumn,  |  unprotected  by  any  natural  guardian  My 
the  dearth  of  partridges,  and  other  very  safe ;  young  friend  Edward  Arundel  I  bad  hoped  when 
topics  of  conversation.  Olivia  and  the  Swamp- ;  in  my  poverty  would  have  been  a  friend  and  ad- 
ington  doctor  were  a  long  time  absent,  and  1  viser  to  her  if  not  a  protector  but  her  tender 
Richard  Paulette,  who  stood  with  his  back  to  >  years  and  his  position  in  life  must  place  this 
the  fire,  glanced  every  now  and  then  toward  the  '  now  out  of  the  ([uestion  and  I  may  die  before  a 
door.  I  fo"<^  hope  which  1  have  long  cherished  can  be 

It  opened  at  last,  and  Mary  Marchmont  came  ^  realized  and  which  may  now  never  be  realized 
into  the  room,  followed  by  her  step-mother.  ^  I  now  desire  to  make  my  will  more  particularly 

Paul  Marchmont  turned  at  the  soured  of  the  ^  to  provide  as  well  as  I  am  permitted  for  the 
opening  of  that  ponderous  mansion-door,  and .;  guardianship  and  care  of  my  dear  little  Mary 
for  the  first  time  saw  his  second  cousin,  the  ^during  her  minority  Now  I  v/ill  and  desire 
young  mistress  of  Marchmont  Towers.  He  phat  my  wife  Olivia  shall  act  as  guardian  adviser 
started  as  he  looked  at  her,  though  with  a  ^  and  mother  to  my  dear  little  Mary  and  that  she 
scarcely  perceptible  'movement,  and  a  change^  place  .herself  under  the  charge  and  guardian- 
camo  over  his  face.  The  feminine  pinky  hue  ^  ship  of  my  wife  And  as  she  will  be  an  heiress 
in  his  cheeks  faded  suddenly  and  left  them  ?  of  very  considerate  property  I  would  wish  her 
white.  It  had  beeu  a  peculiarity  of  Paul  March-,;  to  be  guided  by  the  advice  of  my  said  wife  in 
mont's.from  his  boyhood,  always  to  turn  pale  Uhe  management  of  her  property  and  particularly 
with  every  acute  emotion.  '  (in  the  choice  of  a  husband     As  my  dear  little 

What  was  the  emotion  which  had  now  blanched  .'Mary  will  be  amply  provided  for  on  my  death  I 
his  cheelis.'  Was  he  thinking,  'Is  this  fragile <  make  no  provision  for  her  by  this  my  will  but  1 
creature  the  mistress  of  Marchmont  Towers  }  h  ^  direct  my  executrix  to  present  to  her  a  diamond 
this  frail  "iffe  all  that  stands  between  me  and )  ring  which  I  wish  her  to  wear  in  memory  of  her 
eleven  thoui-and  a  year?'  /loving  father  so  that  she  may  always  have  me 

The  life  which  shone  out  of  that  feeble  earthly  I  in  her  thoughts  and  particularly  of  these  my 
tabernacle  did  indeed  seem  a  frail  and  fitfuU  wishes  as  to  her  future  life  until  she  shall  be  of 
flame,  likely  to  be  extinguished  by  any  rude  )  age  and  capable  of  acting  on  her  own  judgment 
breath  from  the  course  outer  world,  fvlary  1 1  also  request  my  executrix  to  present  my  young 
Marchmont  was  deadly  pale;  black  shadov/s  en- Jfriend  Edward  Arundel  also  with  a  diamond 
circled  her  wistful  hazel  eyes.  Her  stiff  new  j  ring  of  the  value  of  at  least  one  hundred  guineas 
mourning-dress,  with  its  heavy  trimmings  of;!  as  a  slight  ti-ibute  of  the  regard  and  esteem 
lustreless  crape,  seemed  to  hang  loose  upon  her  ^  which  I  have  ever  entertained  for  him  .... 
slender  figure;  her  soft  brown  hair,  damp  with  ^  As  to  all  the  property  as  well  real  as  personal 
the  water  with  which  her  burning  forehead  had  ;;  over  which  I  may  at  the  time  of  my  death  have 
been  bathed,  fell  in  straight  disordered  tresses  ^ any  control  and  capable  of  claiming  or  bequeath- 
about  her  shoulders.  Her  eyes  were  tearless,  ;;ing  I  give  devise  and  bequeath  to  my  wife  Olivia 
her  small  mouth  terribly  compressed.  The  ^absolutely  And  1  appoint  my  said  wife  sole 
rigidity  of  her  face  betokened  the  struggle  by  ^executrix  of  this  my  will  and  guardian  of  my 
which  her  sorrow  was  repressed.     She  sat  down  ^dear  little  Mary.' 

in  an  easy-chair  which  Olivia  indicated  to  her,',  There  were  a  few  very  small  legacies,  a  mourn- 
land  with  her  hands  lying  on  the  white  handker-  ^ing  ring  to  the  expectant  clerk;  and  this  was  all. 
chief  in  her  lap,  and  her  swollen  eyelids  droop- <  Paul  Marchmont  had  been  quite  right.  Nobody 
ing  over  her  eyes,  waited  for  the  reading  of  her  j  could  be  less  interested  than  himself  in  this  will, 
father's  will.  It  would  be  the  last,  the  very  last,  ^  But  he  was  apparently  very  much  interested 
she  would  ever  hear  of  that  dear  father's  words.  I  in  John's  widow  and  daughter.  He  tried  to 
She  remembered  this,  and  was  ready  to  listen  j  enter  into  conversation  with  Mary;  but  the  girl's 
attentively;  bi\t  she  remembered  nothing  else.  ^  piteous  manner  seemed  to  implore  him  to  |eavB 
What  was  it  to  her  that  she  was  sole  heiress  of  J  her  unmolested;  and  Mr.  Bolton  approached  his 
all  that  great  mansion,  and  of  eleven  thousand  ^  patient  almost  immediately  after  the  reading  of 
a  year?  She  had  never  in  her  life  thought  of  >  the  will,  and  in  a  manner  took  possessioli  of  her. 
the  Lincolnshire  fortune  with  any  reference  to  {  Mary  was  very  glad  to  leave  the  room  once  more, 
herself  or  her  own  pleasures,  and  she  thought  of  •;  and  to  go  back  into  the  dim  chamber  where 
it  less  than  ever  now.  }  Hester  Pollard  sat  at  needle-work.     Olivia  left 

The  will  was  dated  February  4,  1844,  exactly  >  her  step-daughter  to  the  care  of  this  humble 
two  months  after  John's  marriage.  It  had  been  |  companion,  and  went  back  to  the  long  dining- 
inade  by  the  master  of  Marchmont  Towers  with-  ]  room,  where  the  gentlemen  still  hung  listlessly 


JOHN   MARCHMONT'S  LEGACY.  45 

over  the  fire,  jiot  knowing  very  well  what  to  do  >  conscience,  and  leaves  her  bedchamber  iu  the 
with  themselves.  i  stillness  of  the  night  to  walk  up  and  down  those 

Mrs.  Marchmont  could  not  do  less  than  invite  ;  long  oaken  corridors  jt  the  Tov/ers,  and  wring 
Paul  to  stay  a  few  days  at  the  Towers.  She  |  her  hands  and  wail  aloud  in  her  sleep.  Why  did 
was  virtually  mistress  of  the  house  during  Mary's  t  she  marry  John  Marchmont?  His  life  cave  her 
minority,  and  on  her  devolved  all  the  troubles,  I'little  more  than  a  fine  house  to  live  in.  His  death 
duties,  and  responsibilities  attendant  on  such  a' leaves  h*r  with  nothing  but  ten  or  twelve  thou- 
position.  Her  father  was  going  to  stay  with  her  '  sand  pounds  in  the  Three  per  Cents.  What  is  her 
till  the  end  of  the  week;  and  he  therefore  would  ;  mystery  ?  what  is  htr  secret,  I  wonder?  for  she 
be  able  to  entertain  Mr.  Marchmont.     I'aul  un-  I  aiii^t  surely  have  one  ' 

hesitatingly  accepted  the  widow's  hospitality  i  Such  thoughts  as  these  filled  his  mind  as  the 
The  old  place  was  picturesque  and  interesting, ;  train  carried  him  away  from  the  lonely  little 
he  said;  there  were  some  genuine  Holbeins  in -station,  and  away  from  the  neighborhood  of 
the  hall  and  dining-room,  and  one  good  Lely  in  ^.  Marchmont  Towers,  within  whose  stony  walls 
the  drawing-room.  He  would  give  himself  a  ?  Mary  lay  in  her  quiet  chamber,  weeping  for  her 
couple  of  days'  holiday,  and  go  to  Stanfield  by  dead  father,  and  wishing — God  knows  in  what 
an  early  train  on  Saturday.  utter  singleness   of    heart — that    she   had   been 

*I  have  not  seen  my  sister  for  a  long  time,'  he   buried  in  the  vault  by  his  side, 
said;  'her  life  is  dull  enough  and  hard  enough. 
Heaven  knows,  and   she  will  be  glad  to  see  me 

upon  my  way  back  to  London. '  "♦*♦ 

Olivia    bowed.     She    did    not   persuade    Mr. 
Marchmont  to  extend   his  visit.     The   common 

courtesy  she   offered    him   was  kept  within  the  CHAPTER  XHL 

narrowest  limits.     She  spent  the  best  part  of  the  oiivia's    despair 

time  in  the  dead   man's  study  during  Paul's  two 

days*  stay,  and  left  the  artist  almost  entirely  to  The  life  which  Mary  and  her  step-daughter 
her  father's  companionship.  led   at  Marchmont  Towers    after   poor  John's 

But  she  was  compelled  to  appear  at  dinner,  death  was  one  of  those  tranquil  and  monotonous 
when  she  took  her  accustomed  place *at  the  head  existences  that  leave  very  little  to  be  recorded, 
of  the  table;  and  Paul  therefore  had  some  oppor-  except  the  slo^v  progress  of  the  weeks  and 
tunity  of  souuding  the  depths  of  the  strangest  months,  the  gradual  changes  of  the  seasons, 
nature  he  had  ever  tried  to  fathom.  He  talked  Mary  bore  her  sorrows  quietly,  as  it  was  her  na- 
to  her  very  much,  listening  with  unvarying-  att»-n-  ture  to  bear  all  things.  The  doctor's  advice  was 
tion  to  every  word  she  uttered.  He  watched  taken,  and  Olivia  removed  *er  step-dayghter  to 
her — but  with  no  obtrusive  gaze— almost  inces-  Scarborough  soon  after  the  funeral.  But  the 
santly;  and  when  he  went  away  from  March-  change  of  scene  v/as  slow  to  effect  any  change  in 
mont  Towers,  without  having  seen  Mary  since  the  state  of  dull  despairing  sorrow  into  which  the 
the  reading  of  the  will,  it  was  of  Olivia  he  girl  had  fallen.  The  sea-breezes  brought  no 
thought;  it  was  the  recollection  of  Olivia  which  "  color  into  her  pale  cheeks.  She  obeyed  her 
interested  as  much  as  it  perplexed  him.  'step-mother's  behests  unmurmuringly,  and  wan- 

The  few  people  waiting  for  the  London  train  dcied  wearily  by  the  sea-shore  in  the  dismal  No- 
looked  at  the  artist  as  he  strolled  up  and  down  '  vembcr  weather  in  search  of  health  and  strength, 
the  quiet  platform  at  Kemberling  Station,  with  But  wherever  she  went,  she  carried  with  her  the 
his  head  bent  and  his  eyebrovv's  slightly  con-  awful  burden  of  her  grief;  and  in  every  changing 
traded,  He  had  a  certain  easy,  careless  grace  cadence  of  the  low  winter  winds,  in  every  vary- 
of  drc«s  and  carriage,  which  harmonized  well  ing  murmur  of  the  moaning  waves,  she  seemed  to 
with  his  delicate  face,  his  silken  silvery  hair,  his  hear  her  dead  father's  funeral  dirge, 
carefully-trained  auburn  moustache,  and  rosy,  I  think  that,  young  as  Mary  Marchmont  was, 
womanish  mouth.  He  was  a  romantic-looking  this  mournful  period  was  the  great  crisis  of  her 
man.  He  was  the  beau-ideal  of  the  hero  in  a  life.  The  past,  with  its  one  great  affection?  had 
young-lady's  novel.  He  was  a  man  whom  school-  been  swept  away  from  her,  and  as  yet  there  was 
girls  would  have  called  'a  dear.'  Byt  it  had  ,  no  friendly  figure  to  fill  the  dismal  blank  of  the 
been  better,  I  think,  for  any  helpless  wretch  to  future.  Had  any  kindly  matron,  any  gentle 
be  in  the  bull-dog  hold  of  the  sturdiest  Bill  Sykcs ,  Christian  creature,  been  ready  to  stretch  out  her 
ever  loosed  upon  society  by  right  of  his  ticUet-of-  arms  to  the  desolate  orphan,  Mary's  heart  would 
leave  than  in  the  power  of  Paul  Marchmont,  have  melted,  and  she  would  have  crept  to  the 
jirtist  and  teacher  of  drawing,  of  Charlotte  Street,  shelter  of  that  womanly  embrace,  «o  ne>tle  there 
Kitzroy  Square.  forever.     But  there  was  no  one.     Olivia  March- 

He  was  thinking  of  Olivia  as  he  walked  slowly  mont  obeyed  the  letter  of  }\pr  husband's  solemn 
up  and  down  the  bare  platform,  only  separated  appeal,  as  she  had  obeyed  the  letter  of  those  Cos- 
by a  rough  wooden  paling  from  the  fiat  open  pel  sentences  that  had  been  familiar  to  her  from 
fields  on  the  outskirts  of  Kemberling.  her  childhood,  but  was  utlerly.tmable  to  comprc- 

'The  little  girl  is  as  feeble  as  a  pale  February  '  hend  its  spirit.  She  accepted  the  charge  in- 
hutterfly,'  he  thought;  'a  puff  of  frosty  wind  trusted  to  her.'  She  was  unflinching  in  the  pcr- 
might  wither  her  away.  But  that  woman,  that  formancc  of- her  duty;  but  no  one  glimmer  of  the 
woman— how  handsome  she  is,  with  her  accurate  holy  linht  of  motherly  love  and  tenderness,  the 
profile  and  iron  mouth;  liut  what  a  raging  fire  scmi-divinc  compassion  of  womanhood,  ever  il- 
there  is  hidden  some  where  in  her  breast,  and  lumiiied  the  dark  chambers  of  her  heart.  Every 
devouring  her  beauty  by  day  and  night!  If  I  night  she  questioned  herself  upon  her  knees  as  tci 
wanted  to  paint  th«  sleeping  scene  in  Marhcllt,  her  rigul  performance  of  the  level  round  of  dutv 
I'd  ask  her  to  sit  for  the  Thane's  wicked  wife,  she  had  allotted  to  herself;  every  night— scrupu- 
Perhaps  she  has  some  bloody  secret  as  deadly  as  lous  and  sclf-relcntless  as  the  hardest  judge  who 
the  murder  of  a  gray-headed   Duncan  upon  her   ever  pronounced  jeutcDcc  upon  a  criminal — the 


•« 


JOHN  MARCHMONT 'S  LEGACY. 


took  note  of  her  own  shortcomings,  and  acknowl-   girl  of  sixteen.    Tbey  "vvere  never  tired  of  laiidin 


edgeS  her  deficiencies 


But,  unhappily,  this 'self-devotion  of  Olivia's  •  in  time  to  come. 


i".  Mrs.  Marchmont  as  a  model  for  aH  step-mothers 


pressed  no   less  heavily  iTpon  Mary  than   on  the;, 
widow  herself.     The   more  rigidly   Mrs.  March 


Did   she   sacrifice  much   this   woman,   whose 
spirit  was  a  raging  fire,  who  had  the  ambition  of 


mont  performed  the  duties  which  she  understood  !  a  Semiramis,  the  courage  of  a  Boadicea,  the 
to  be  laid  upon  her  by  her  dead  husband's  last ;  resolution  of  a  Lady  Macbeth .'  Did  she  sacri- 
will  and  testament,  the  harder  became  the  or- }  fice  much  in  resigning  such  provincial  gayeties 
phan's  life.  The  weary.tread-mill  of  education  ;  as  might  have  adorned  her  life— a  few  dinner- 
worked  oil,  when  the  yourg  student  was  well- I  parties,  an  occasional  co\inty  ball,  a  flirtation 
nish  fainting  upon   every  step  on  that  hopeless  ;- with  some  ponderous  landed  gentleman  ot  hunt- 


ladder  of  knowledge.     If  Olivia,  on  communini 
Avith  herself  at  night,  found   that  the  day  just 


ing  squire .' 
No-,  these  things  would  very  soon  have  grown 


done  had  been  too  easy  a  one  for  both  mistress  )  odious  to  her;  more  odiogs  than  the  monotony 
and  pupil,  the  morrow's  allowance  of  Roman  ^of  her  empty  life,  more  wearisome  even  than 
emperors  and  French  grammar  was  made  to  do) the  perpetual  weariness  of  her  own  spirit.  I 
pennace  for  yesterday 's  shortcomings.  ;■  said  that,  when   she  acc.epted  a  new  life  by  be- 

'  This  girl  has  been  intrusted  to  my  care,  and  J  coming  the  wife  of  John  Marchmont,  she  acted 
one  of  my  first  duties  is  to  give  her  a  good  edu-  'in  the  spirit  of  a  prisoner  who  is  glad  to  exchange 
cation,'  Olivia  Marchmont  thought.  'She  is 'his  old  dungeon  for  a  new  one.  But,  alas,  the' 
inclined  to  be  idle;  but  1  must  fight  against  her  >  novelty  of  the  prison-house  had  very  speedily 
inclination,  whatever  trouble  the  struggle  entails  j  worn  off,  and  that  which  Olivia  Arundel  had 
upon  myself.     The  harder  the  battle,  the  better ;  been   at   Swampington  Rectory,  Olivia  March- 


for  me,  if  1  am  conqueror. 


mont  was  now  in  the  gaunt  country  mansion — a 


It  was  only  thus  that  Olivia  Marchmont  could  ;  wretched  woman,  weary  of  herself  and  all  the 
liope  to  he  a  good  woman.  It  was  only  by  the :  world,  devoured  by  a  slow-consuming  and  per- 
rigid  periformance   of  hard    duties,   the  patient  J  petual  fire. 

practice  of  tedious  rites,  that  she  could  hope  to  }  This  woman  was  for  two  long  melancholy  years 
attain  that  eternal  crown  which  simpler  Chris- ;  Mary  Marchmont's  sole  companioYi  and  instruct- 
tians  seem  to  win  so  easily.  ^  ;  ress.    I  sai^  sole  companion  advisedly;  for  the  girl 

Morning  and  eight  the  widow  and  her  step-,  was  not  allowed  to  become  intimate  with  the 
daughter  read  the  Bible  together;  morning  and  younger  members  of  such  few  county  families  as 
night  they  knelt  side  by  side  to  join  in  the  same  )  still  called  occasionally  at  the  Towers,  lest  she 
familiar  prayers  :  yet  all  these  readings,  and  all :  should^become   empty-lieaded    and   frivolous  by 

'^'"   "  '  '       Alas!  there 

empty-headed. 


these  prayers,  fai^d  to  bring  them  any  nearer) such  companionship,  Olivia  said, 
together.  No  tender  sentence  of  inspiration,  not ;' was  little  fear  of  Mary's  becoming 
the  words  of  Christ  Himself,  ever  struck  the  same  i  As  she  grew  taller  and  more  slender,  she  seemed 
chord  in  these  two  women's  hearts,  bringing  both  to  get  weaker  and  paler,  and  her  heavy  head 
into  sudden  unison.  '  They  went  to  church  three  drooped  wearily  under  the  l6ad  of  knowledge 
times  upon  each  dreary  Sunday — dreary  from  the;:  which  it  had  Been  made  to  carry,  like  some 
terrible  uniformity  which  made  one  day  a  me-;  poor  sickly  {lower  oppressed  by  the  weight  of 
chanical  repetition  of  another,  and  sat  together   the   dew-drops   which   would    have  revivified  a 


in  the   same   pew-,,  and   there  were  times  when 
some   solemn   word,   some    sublime    injunction 


hardier  blossom. 

Heaven  knows  to  what"  end  Mrs.  Marchmont 


seemed  to  fall  with  a  new  meaning  upon  the  or- !  educated  her  stcp-daQghter.  Poor  Mary  could 
phan  girl's  heart;  but  if  she  looked 'at  her  step-  have  told  the  precise  date  of  any  event  in  uni- 
mother's  face,  thinking  to  see  some  ray  of  that  versal  history,  ancient  or  modern;  she  could 
sudden  light  which  had  newly  shOne  into  her  own  have  named  the  exact  latitude  and  longitude  of 
mind  reflected  Ihcre^  the  blank  gloom  of  Olivia's  the  remotest  island  in  the  least  navigable  ocean, 
countenance  seemed  li-ke  a  dead  wall,  across  and  might  have  given  an  accurate  account  of  the 
wliich  no  glimmer  of  radiance  ever  shone.  raanner-i  and  customs  of  its  inhabitants  had  she 

They  went  back  to  Marchmont  Towers  in  the  been  called  upon  to  do  so.  She  was  alarmingly 
early  spring.  People  imagined  that  the  young  learned  upon  the  subject  of  tertiary  and  old  red 
widow  would  cultivate  the  society  of  her  hus-  sandstone,  and  could  have  told  you  almost  as 
band's  old  friends,  and  '  that  morning  callers  ;  much  as  Mr.  Cha,rles  Kingsley  himself  about  the 
would  be  welcome  at  the  Towers,  and  the  stately ':  history  of  a  gravel-pit — though  I  doubt  if  she 
dinner-parties  v/culd  begin  again,  when.  Mrs.  ;  could"  have  conveyed  her  information  in  quite 
Marchmont'^  year  of  mourning  was  over.  But  i  such  a  pleasant  manner;  she  could  have  pointed 
it  was  not  so;  Olivia  closed  her  doors  upon  al- ^  out  every  star  in  the  broad  heavens  above  Lin- 
most  all  .society,  and  devoted  herself  entirely  to  (  colnshire,  and  could  have  told  the  history  of  its 
the  education  of  LA- step-daughter.  The  ■gossips  i  discovery;'  she  knew  the  hardest  names  that 
of  Swampington  and  Kemberling;  the  country  !  science  had  given  to  the  familiar  field-flowers 
gentry  wiio  had  talked  of  her  piety  and  patience;  ?  she  met  in  her  daily  walks;  yet  I  can  not  say 
her  unflinching  devoiion  to  the  poor  of  her  fa- :  that  her  conversaiion  was  any  the  mo>e  briilian-t 
ther's  parish,  talked  now  of  her  self-abnegation; ,  because  of  this,  or  that  her  spirits  grew  any  the 
the  sacrifices  she  made  for  her  step-daughter's  lighter  under  the  influence  of  this  general  mental 
sake;  the  noble   manner   in    wliich  she  justified    iliurainatiou. 

John  Marchmont's  confidence  in  her  goodness.  But  Mrs.  Marchmont  did  most  earnestly  be- 
Other  women  would  have  intrusted  the  hsiress's  lieve  that  this  laborious  educationarv  process 
education  to  some  hired  governess,  people  said;;  was  one  of  the  duties  she  owed  her  step-daugh- 
other  women  would  have  been  upon  the  look-out  ter;  and  when,  at  seventeen  years  of  age,  Mary 
for  a  second  husband;  other  women  would  have  ;  emerged  from  the  struggle,  laden  with  such  in- 
grown weary  of  the  dullness  of  that  lonely  Lin- 1  tellectual  spoils  as  I  have  described  above,  the 
colnshire  mansion,  the  monotonous  society  of  a    widow  felt  a  quiet  satisfaction  as  she  contcm- 


JOHN  MARCHMOr^T'S  LEGACY. 


platedliei- work,  aiiJ  said  to  herself,  'In  this,  at 
lealf,  I  have  done  my  duty.* 

Aniong  nil  the  dreary  mass  of  instruction  he- 
neath  which  her  health  had  nearly  succumbed, 
the  ^lirl  had  learned  one  thine;  that  was  a  source 
of  pleasure  to  herself.  She  had  learned  to  be- 
come'a  very  brilliant  musician.  Slie  was  not  a 
musical  u;enius,  remember?  for  no  such  vivid  flame 
as  the  tire  of  irenins  had  ever  burned  in  her  gentle 
breast;  but  all  tlie  tenderness  of  her  nature,  all 
the  poetry  of  a  hyper-poetical  mind,  centred  in 
this  one  accomplishment,  and,  condemned  to  per- 
petual silence  in  every  other  tonsiue,  found  a  new 
:ind  plorious  lanc;uag;e  here.  The  girl  had  been 
forbidden  to  read  iiyron  and  iScott,  but  shc'was 
not  forbidden  to  sit  at  her  .piano  when  the  days 
toils  were  over,  and  the  twilight  was  dusky  in  her 
quiet  room,  playing  dreamy  melodies  by  Beetho- 
ven and  Mozart,  and  makinc;  her  own  poetry  to 
Mendelssohn's  wordless  songs.  I  think  her  soul 
must  have  shrunic  and  withered  away  had  it  not 
been  fc/r  this  one  resource,  this  one  refuge,  in 
which  her  mind  regained  its  elasticity,  springing 
up.  like  a  trampled  flower,  into  new  life  and 
beauty- 
Olivia  was  v/ell  pleased  to  see  the  girl  sit  hour 
after  hour  at  her  piano.  She  had  learned  to  play 
well  and  -brilliantly  herself,  mastering  all  difTi- 
cultics  with  the  proud  determination  which  was  a 
part  of  her  strong  nature;  but  she  had  no  special 
love  for  music.  All  things  that  compose  the  po- 
etry and  beauty  of  life  Kad  been  denied  to  this 
woman,  in  common  with  the  tenderness  which 
makes  the  chief  loveliness  of  womankind.  She 
sat  by  and  listened  while  Mary's  slight  hands 
wandered  over  the  instrument,  carrying  Uie  play- 
er'.^ soul  away  into  trackless  regions  of  dream- 
land and  beauty;  but  she  heard  nothing  in  the 
music  except  so  many  chords,  b.o  many  tones  and 
ssemi-tones,  played  in  such  or  such  a  time. 

It  would  have  been  scarcely  natural  for  Mary 
Marchmont,  reserved  and  self-contained  though 
she  had  beenevcrsinccherfatiier's  death,  tohavt 
had  no  yearning  lor  more  genial  companionshi; 
than  that  of  her  step  mother.  The  girl  who  had 
kept  watch  in  her  room  by  the  doctor's  suggestior 
was  the  one  friend  and  confidante  whom  the  younp 
mistress  of  Marchmont  Towers  fain  would  havi 
chosen.  But  here  Olivia  interposed,  sternly  for- 
bidding any  intimacy  between  the  two  girls.  Hes- 
ter Pollard  was  the  daughter  of  a  small  tenant 
farmer,  and  no  til  associdte  for  Mrs.  Marchmont';. 
step-daughter,  Olivia  tliought  th:it  this  taste  for 
obscure  company  was  the  fruit  of  -Mary's  earl< 
training;  the  taint  left  by  those  bitter,  debasing 
days  of  poverty,  in  which  John  Marchmont  and- 
his  d'luehtcr  had  lived  in  some  wretched  Lam- 
bclli  lodging. 

'But  itestcr  Pollard  is  fond  of  me,  mamma,' 
the  girl  pleaded,  'and  I  feel  so  happy  at  the  old 
farm-house.  They  are  all  so  kind  to  me  when  1 
go  there — Hester's  father  and  mother,  and  little 
brothers  and  sisters,  yu  know;  and  tjic  poultry- 
yard,  and  the  pigs  and  horses,  and  the  green-pond, 
with  the  geese  cackling  round  it,  remind  me  ol 
my  aunt's  in  I^erkshirc.  I  >\tnt  there  once  wiih 
po^r  papa  for  a  day  or  two;  it  was  such  a  change 
after  Oakley  Street.' 

But  Mrs.  M.irchmont  was  inflexible  upon  this 
point.  She  would  allow  her  step-daughter  to  pay 
a  ceremonial  visit  now  and  tlicn  to  Farmer  Pol- 
lard's, and  to  be  entertained  with  cowslip-wine 
and  pound-cake  in  the  low  old-fashioned  parlor, 
where  all  the  poliihcd  mahogany  chairs  were  so 


')  shining  and  slippery  that  it  was  a  marvel  how 
;  any  body  ever  contrived  to  sit  do\^i  upon  them, 
i  Olivia  allowed  such  so'emn.  visits  as  these  now 
landth^n.and  she  permitted  VI ary  to  renew  the 
;  farmer's  lease  upon  •  suffi.cient]y  advantageous 
;  terms,  and  to  make  occasional  presents  to  her 
:  fa'-orite,  Hester-  Bui  all  s-tolen  visits  to  the  farm- 
i'yard,  al!  evening  rambles  with  the  farmer's  daugh- 
;ter  in  the  apple  orchard  at  the  back  of  the  low 
;  white  farm-house,  were  strictly  interdicted;  and 

■  though  Mary  and  Hester  were  friends  still,  they 
were  fain  to  be  content  with  a  chance  of  meeting 

.  once'in  the  course  of  a  dreary  interval  of  mor^ths, 
and  a  silent  pressure  of  the  hand. 

■  'You  mustn't  think  that  I  am  proud  of  my  mo- 
;,  ney,  Hester,'  Mary  said  to  her  friend,  'or  that  I 
;  forget  you  now  that  we  see  each  other  so  seldom. 
^  Papa  used  to  let  me  come  to  the  farm  whenever  I 
;  liked;  but  papa  had  seen  a  great  deal  of  poverty. 
:  Mamma  keeps  me  almost  always  at  home  at  my 
^. studies;  but  she  is  very  good  to  me,  and  of  course 
\  I  am  bound  to  obey  her;  papa  wished  me  to  obey 
)hcr.' 

\  The  orphan  girl  never  for  a  moment  forgot  the 
'>  terms  of  her  father's  will.  iTe  had  wished  her  to 
\  obey;  what  should  she  do  then  but  be  obedient? 
;  Her  submission  to  Olivia's  lightest  wish  was  only 
,  a  part  of  the  homage  which  she  paid  to  that  be- 
f  loved  father's  memory. 

/      It  was  thus  she  grew  to  early  womanhood;  a 
!  child  in  geiUle  obediencd  and  docility;  a  woman 
'  by  reason  of  that  grave  and  thoUghll'ul  character 
'  which  had  been  peculiar  to  her  from  her  very  in- 
;  fancy.     It  was  in  a  life  such  as  this,  narrow,  mo- 
notonous, joyless,  that  her  seventeenth  birthday 
'  came  and  went,  scarcely  noticed,  scarcely  remem- 
bered, in  the  dull  uniformity   of  the   days  which 
,'  left  no  track  behind  them;  and  Mary  Marchmont 
was  a  woman — a  woman  with   all  the  tragedy  of 
!  life   before   her;  infantine  in  her   innocence  and 
inexperience  of   the   world  outside  Marcbmont 
5  Towers. 


^      The  passage  of  time  had  been  so  long  unmarked 

)  jy  any  break  in  iU  tranquil  course,  the  dull  rou- 

s   ine  of  life  had  been  so  long  undisturbed  by  change, 

5    hat  1  believe  the  two  women  thought  their  lives 

ivould  go  on  for  ever  and  ever.      Mary,  at  least, 

had  never  looked  beyond   the  dull  hori:;ori  of  the 

present.      Her  haljit  of  castle-building  had  died 

ut  with  her  father's  death.     What  need  had  she 

to  build  castles  now  that  he  could  no  longer  in- 

i  labit  them  .'    Edward  Arundel,  the  bright  hoy  she 

<    emcmbered  in  Oakley  Street,  the  dashing  young 

'  )fficer  who  had  come  to  Marchmont  Towers,  had 

\  Iropped  back  into  the  chaos  of  the  past.      Her 

)  i'atlier  had  been  the  keystone  in  the  arch  of  Ma- 

>  y's  existence:  he  was  gone,  and  a  mass  of  cha- 

>  itic  ruins  alone  remained  of  the  familiar  visions 
(  A'Ipich  had  once  beguiled  her.  The  world  had 
.'«nded  with  John  I\Iarelimont's  death,  and  his 
!,  .laughter's  life  since  tiiat  great  sorrow  had  been 

)  »t  best  only  a  passive  endurance  of  existence. 

I  They  had  heard  very  little  of  the  j-oung  soldier 
'  dt  Marchmont  Towers.  Now  and  then  a  letter 
■  irom  some  member  of  the  family  at  DangerfieJd 
)  had  come  to  the  Rector  of  Swampington.  The 
'i  warfare  was  still  raging  far  away  in  the  East, 
j  cruel  and  desperate  battles  were  being  fought, 
:  iind  brave  Englishmen  were  winnrng  loot  and 
i  laurels,  or  perishing  luider  the  cinieters  of  Sikhs 
;  and  Afghans,  as  the  case  may  be  Squire  Arun- 
{.icl's  youngest  son  was  not  doing  less  than  his 
j  duty,  (be  letters  said.  He  bad  gained  his  cap. 
j  taincy,  and  was  well  spoken  of  by  great  soldiers 


48  JOHN  MARCIIMONT'S  LEGACY. 

whose  very  names  were  like  the  sound  of  the  i  her  youth.    It  was  no  longer  a  sin  to  think  of 
war-trumpet  to  English  ears.  ;  Edward  Arundel.     Having  once  suffered  this^a 

Olivia  heard  all   Uiis.     She  sat  by  her  father,  i  to  arise  in  her  mind,  her  idol  grew  too  strong  for 
sometimes  looking  ov^rhis  shoulder  at  the  crum-;  her,  and  she  thought  of  him  by  night  and  day. 
pled  letter,  as  he  read  aloud  to  her  of  her  cousin's;     ^  i^.        .^i.,^.i.  3 

exploits.  The  familiar  name  seemed  to  be  ail '^.J^^^  «^«  rr°"»^^^°^^'I°  ?''  ^Tu*"'^,^^- 
ablaze  with  lurid  licht  as  the  widow's  greedy  j  T'?^"^"°^''f«  *°)^^'c^  she  doomed  herself  ^ 
eyes  devoured  it.  How  commonplace  the  tetters  self-immolalion  which  she  called  duty  left  her  a 
were!  What  frivolous  no.,sense  Letitia  Arundel  P^'^y  !«  t^'«  one  thought.  Her  work  was  not 
intermingled  with  the  news  of  her  brother  l-i  ^"°"S'?  f'",^^''-  Her  powerful  mmd  wasted  and 
'You'll  be  glad  to  hear  that  my  gray  pony  has  5  ^h'^'^,^^^^'^  ^°^  M'ant  of  worthy  employment  It 
got  the  better  of  his  lameness.  Papa  gave  a  hunt-^,T^'  '  ^.""^  vast  roll  of  parchment  whereon  hall 
ing-breakfast  on  Tuesday  week.  Lord  Mount- ;^'^^.,^\^'^°'"  °f^the  world  might  have  been  in- 
litchcombe  was  present;  but  the  hunting  men  are  r'^'"''^^^'  1"^^°"  ^^'^^  ^^»  9n'y  y""^"  over  and 
very  much  aggravated  about  the  frost,  and  I  fear^^Y""  ^^^^"'  '"  7,^^^7'?5.  'leration,  the  name  of 
we  shall  have  no  crocuses.  Edward  has  got  his  P^'^'"^  Arundel.  If  Ohvia  Marchmont  could 
captaincy,  papa  told  me  to  tell  you;  Sir  Charles '  ^^''^  g""^  ^^  America,  and  entered  herself  among 
—     ■       ■*    -    ^-  ~  •'  ,  J  the  feminine  professors  of  law  and  medicine — if 


HalburtoH. Lodge  ?  He  died  last  November,  and  J^^'  ^^^  ^"^  "?^  "^  ^^^'!  l^'T'  ^^^  ^^'^  '^"'^ 
has  left  all  his  money  to-'  And  the  young  lady '  dreamed  one  dream,  and  by  force  of  perpetual 
ran  on  thus  with  such  gossip  as  she  thought  might; '"^P^^'^'O'^  *''«  dream  had  become  a  madness, 
be  pleasing  to  her  uncle;  and  there  were  no  more  '  But  the  monotonous  life  was  not  to  go  on  for- 
tidings  of  the  young  soldier,  whose  life-bloed  had 'ever.  The  dull,  gray,  leaden  sky  was  to  be  il- 
so  nearly  been  spilt  for  his  country's  glory.  ,  lumined  by  sudden  bursts  of  sunshine,  and  swept 

Olivia  thought  of  him  as  she  rode  back  to  ji  by  black  thunder-clouds,  whose  storm/ violence 
Marchmont  Towers.  She  thought  of  the  sabre-;!  was  to  shake  the  very  universe  for  these  two  soli- 
cut  upon  his  arm,  and  pictured  him  wounded  and-  tary  women. 

bleeding,  lying  beneaih  the  canvas  shelter  of  a  j     John  Marchmont  had  been  dead  nearly  three 
tent,  comfortless,  lonely,  forsaken.  ;!  years.      Mary's    humble    friend,    the    farmer's 

'  Better  for  me  if  he  had  died,'  she  thought;;:  daughter,  had  married  a  young  tradesman  in  the 
«  better  for  me  if  I  were  to  bear  of  his  death  to-;  village  of  Keonberling,  a  mile  and  a  half  from  the 
morrow.'  -  ;!  Towers.     Mary  was  a  woman  now,  and  had  seen 

And  with  the  idea  the  picture  of  such  a  ca-;;the  last  of  the  Roman  Emperors  and  all  the  drj- 
lamity  arose  before  her  so  vividly  and  hideously  j  as-dust  studies  of  her  early  girlhood.  She  had 
distinct  that  she  thought  for  one  brief  moment  of  i  nothing  to  do  but  accompany  her  step-mother 
agony,  '  This  is  not  a  fancy,  it  is  a  presentiment; /hitiier  and  thither  among  the  poor  cottagers 
it  is  second  sight;  the  thing  will  occur.'  <  about  Kemberling  and  two  or  three  other  small  ' 

She  imagined  herself  going  to  see  her  father  |  parishes  within  a  drive  of  the  Towers,  doing 
as  she  had  gone  that  morning.  All  would  be  the  $  good,  after  Olivia's  fashion,  by  line  and  rule, 
same  :  the  low  gray  garden-wall  of  the  Rectory  ■"  At  home  the  young  lady  did  what  she  pleased, 
the  ceaseless  surging  of  the  sea;  the  prim  servant- 1;  sitting  for  hours  together  at  her  piano,  or  wading 
maid;  the  familiar  study,  with  its  litter  of  books ,;  hrough  gigantic  achievements  in  thewayofeni- 
and  papers;  the  smell  of  old  cigar-smoke;  the  :  broidery-work.  She  was  even  allowed  to  read 
chintz  curtains  flapping  in  the  open  window;  th>  '/  novels  now,  but  only  such  novels  as  were  es- 
dry  leaves  fluttering  in  the  garden  without  /  pecially  recommended  to  Olivia,  who  was  one  of 
There  would  be  nothing  changed  except  her  la-  i\  ihe  patronesses  of  a  book-club  at  Swampington. 
ther's  face,  which  wouid  be  a  little  graver  thaii '/  The  two  women  went  to  Kemberling  Church 
usual.  And  then,  after  a  little  hesitation,  after  a  ^  together  three  times  every  Sunday.  It  was 
brief  preamble  about  the  uncertainty  of  life,  the  /rather  monotonous;  the  same  church,  the  same 
necessity  for  looking  always  beyond  this  world,  i>  ector  and  curate,  the  same  clerk,  the  same  con- 
the  horrors  of  war — the  dreadful  words  would  bi  !;  jre^gation,  the  same  old  organ  tunes  and  droning 
upon  his  lips,  when  she  would  read  all  tht  /voices  of  Lincolnshire  charity-children,  the  same 
liideous  truth  in  his  face,  and  fall  prone  to  tht  /  ,ermons  very  often.  But  Mary  had  grown  ac- 
gronnd  before  he  could  say, '  Edward  Arundel  it  /  customed  to  monotony.  She  had  ceased  to  hope 
dead.'  I;  or  care  for  anything  since  her  father's  death,  and 

Yes;  she  felt  all  tlie  anguish.  It  would  bt,/  was  very  well  contented  to  be  let  alone,  and  al- 
this — this  sudden  paralysis  of  black  despair.  She  /  owed  to  dawdle  through  a  dreary  life  which  was 
tested  the  strength  of  her  endurance  by  this  im-  j  itterly  without  aim  or  purpose.  She  sat  oppc- 
aginary  torture — scarcely  imaginary  surely,  Avhei  /  site  her  step-mother  on  one  particular  afternoon 
itseemedsoreal — and  askedherseif  astrangeques- '?  m  the  state  pew  at  Kemberling,  which  waslined 
tion  :  'Am  1  strong  enough  to  bear  this,  or  wouh  '!■  jvhh  faded  red  baize,  and  raised  a  little  above 
it  be  less  terrible  to  go  on,  suffering  forever — for  ;■  he  pews  of  meaner  worshipers;  she  was  sitting 
ever  abased  and  humiliated  by  tlie  degradation  oi  ',;  vjth  her  listless  hands  lying  in  her  lap,  looking 
my  love  for  a  man  who  does  not  care  for  mer'      /  houghtfully  at  her  step-mother's  stony  face,  and 

So  long  as  John  Marchmont  had  lived  this  Wo  f;  istening  to  Uie  dull  droning  of  the  rector?s  voice 
man  would  have  been  true  to  the  terrible  victon  /  ibove  her  head.  It  was  a  sunny  afternoon  in 
she  had  won  upon  the  eve  of  her  bridal.  Shf  /  ;arly  June,  and  the  church  was  bright  with  a 
would  have  been  true  to  herself  and  to  her  mar  /  varm  jellow  radiance;  one  of  the  old  diamond- 
riage  vow;  but  her  husband's  death,  in  settinj.  ^  paned  windows  was  open,  and  the  tinkling  of  a 
her  free,  had  cast  her  back  upon  the  madness  ol^sheep-bell  far  away  in  the  distance,  and  the  hum 


JOHN  MARCHMONT'S.  LEGACY. 


49 


of  bees  in  tlie  cliurch-yard,  sounded  pleasantly  in 
the  quiet  of  the  hot  atmosphere. 

The  young  mistress  of  Marchmont  Towei-s  felt 
the  drov/sy  itifluence  of  that  tranquil  summer 
weather  creeping  stealthily  upon  her.  The 
heavy  eyelids  drooped  over  lier  soft  brown  eyes, 
those  wistful  eyes  which  had  looked  so  long 
wearily  out  upon  a  world  in  which  there  seemed 
so  little  joy.  "Wie  rector's  sermon  was  a  very 
long  one  this  warm  afiernoon,  and  there  was  a 
low  sound  of  snoring  somewhere  in  one  of  the 
shadowy  and  shattered  pews  beneath  the  gal- 
leries. Mary  tried  very  hard  to  keep  herself 
awake.  Mrs.  Marchmont  had  frowned  darkly 
at  her  once  or  twice  already,  for  to  fall  asleep  in 
church  was  a  dire  ini(iuity  in  Olivia's  rigid  creed; 
but  the  drowsiness  was  not  easily  to  be  con- 
quered, and  the  girl  was  sinking  into  a  peaceful 
slumber  in  the  face  of  her  step-mother's  menac- 
ing frowns,  when  the  sound  of  a  sharp  footfall  on 
one  of  the  gravel  pathways  in  the  church-yard 
aroused  her  attention. 

Heaven  knows  why  she  should  have  been 
awoke  out  of  her  sleep  by  tlw  sound  of  that  step. 
Jt  was  dillerent  perlups  to  the  footsteps  of  the 
Kemberling  congregation.  The  brisk,  sharp 
sound  of  the  tread,  striking  lightly  bat  firmly  on 
the  gravel,  was  not  compatible  with  the  shiilliing 
gait  of  tlie  tradespeople  and  farmers' men  who 
formed  the  greater  part  of  the  worsiiipers  at  that 
quiet  Lincolnshire  cliurch.  Again,  it  would  have 
been  a  monstrous  sin  in  that  tranquil  place  for 
any  one  member  of  the  congregation  to  disturb 
the  rest  by  centering  at  suc4,i,a  lime  as  this.  It 
was  a  stranger,  llien,  ev\'d;titly.  What  did  it 
matter?  Miss  Marchmont  scarcely  cared  to  lift 
her  eyelids  to  see  who  or  what  the  stranger  was; 
but  the  intruder  lefin  such  a  flood  of  June  sun- 
shine when  he  pushed  open  the  ponderous  oaken 
door  under  the  church  porch  that  she  was  dazzled 
by  that  sudden  burst  of  light,  and  involuntarily 
opened  her  eyes. 

The  stranger  let  the  door  s\<i,ng  softly  to  be- 
hind him,  and  stood  beneath  the  shadow  of  the 
porch,  not  caring  to  advance  any  farther,  or  to 
disturb  the  congregation  by  liis  presence. 

Mary  could  not  see  him  very  plainly  at  first. 
She  could  only  dimly  define  ihe  oujjine  of  his 
tall  figure,  the  waving  masses  of  *nn?stnut  hair 
tinged  with  g-leams  of  gold;  but,  Ifttle  by  little, 
his  face  seemed  to  grow  out  of  the  shadow,  until 
she  saw  it  all — the  hatidsome  patrician  features, 
the  luminous  blue  eyes,  the  amber  mustache— the 
face  wiiich  in  OakleyiSlrcet,  eight  years  ago,  she 
had  elected  as  her  type  of  all  manly  perfection, 
her  ideal  of  heroic  grace. 

Yes;  it  was  Edward  Arundel.  Her  eyes  lighted 
up  with  an  unwonted  rapture  as  she  looked  at 
him;  her  lips  parted,  and  her  breath  came  in  faint 
gasps.  All  the  monotonous  years,  the  terrible 
agonies  of  sorrow,  dropped  away  into  the  past; 
and  there  was  nothing  but  the  present,  the  all- 
glorious  present. 

The  one  friend  of  hr.r  childHiod  had  come 
back.  The  one  link,  the  almost  forgotten  link, 
•  that  bound  her  to  every  . lay-dream  of  llii)«e  fool- 
ish early  days,  was  united  once  moie  by  the  pre- 
sence of  the  young  soldier.  All  that  happy  lirae, 
nearly  five  years  ago — that  happy  time  in  which 
the  tennis-court  h^l  been  buiil,  and  the  boat- 
house  by  th«  river  restored — tho'-e  sunny  autumn 
days  before  her  father's  second  matnagc — re- 
turned to  her.  Thet^^  \«*4^  pleasure  and  joy  in 
the  world,  after  all;  and  then  the  memory  of  her 
7 


father  came  back  to  her  mind,  and  her  eyes  filled 
with  tears.  How  sorry  Kdward  would  be  to  see 
his  old  friend's  eaij)ty  place  in  the  western  draw- 
ing-room; how  sorry  for  her  and  for  her  loss! 
Olivia  Marchmont  saw  the  change  in  her  step- 
daughter's face,  and  looked  at  her  with  stern 
amazement.  But,  after  the  first  shock  of  that 
delicious  surprise,  Mary's  training  asserted  itself. 
She  folded  her  hands — they  tremi)Ied  a  little,  hut 
Olivia  did  not  see  lliat — nnd  waited  jiatieiitly, 
with  her  eyes  cast  down  and  a  f;vint  flush  lighting 
up  her  pale  cheeks,  until  the  sermon  was  finished 
and  the  congregation  began  to  disperse.  She  was 
not  impatient.  .She  felt  as  if  she  could  have 
^vaitcd  thus  jieacefully  and  contentedly  forever, 
knowing  that  the  only  friend  she  had  on  earth 
was  near  her. 

Olivia  was  slo^  to  leave  her  pew;  but  at  last 
she  opened  the  door  and  went  out  into  the  quiet 
aisle,  followed  by  Mary,  out  under  the  shadowy 
porch  and  into  the  gravel-walk  in  the  church- 
yard, where  Edward  Arundel  was  waiting  for  the 
two  ladies. 

John  Marchmont's  widow  uttered  no  cry  of 
surprise  when  she  saw  her  cousin  standing  a  lit- 
tle away  apart  from  the  slowly-dispersing  Kem- 
berling congregation.  Her  dark  face  faded  a 
little,  and  herlieart  seemed  to  stop  its  pulsation 
smlAnly,  as  if  she  had  been  turned  into  stone; 
but  this  was  only  for  a  moment.  She  held  out 
her  hand  to  Mr.  Arundel  in  the  next  instant,  and 
bade  him  welcome  to  Lincolnshire. 

'  L  did  not  know  you  were  i||  England,'  she 
said.  •' 

'Scarcely  any  one  knows  it  yet,' the  young 
man  answered;  '  and  1  have  not  even  been  homo. 
I  came  to  Marchmont  Towers  at  once.' 

He  turned  from  his  cousin  to  Mary,  who  was 
standing  a  little  behind  her  step-mother. 

'Dear  Polly,' he  said,  taking  both  her  hands 
in  his,  *  I  was  so  sorry  for  you  when  I  heard — ' 

He  stopped,  for  he  sa^v  the  tears -welling  up  to 
her  eyes,  it  was  not  his  allusion  to  her  father's 
death  thai  had  distressed  her.  He  hnd  called 
her  Polly,  the  old  familiar  name,  Avhich  she  had, 
never  heard  since  that  dead  father's  lips  had  last 
spoken  it. 

The  carriage  was  wailing  at  the  gate  of  the 
church-yard,  and  Edward  Arundel  went  back 
10  Marchmont  Towers  Avith  the  two  ladies.  He 
had  reached  the  house  a  quarter  of  an  hour  after 
they  had  left  it  for  afternoon  church,  and  had 
walked  over  to  Kemberling. 

♦  1  was  so  anxious  to  sec  you,  Polly,'  he  said, 
'  after  all  this  long  time,  that  I  had  no  patience  to 
wait  until  you  and  Liv'y  came  back  from  church.' 

Olivia  started  as  the  young  man  said  this.  It 
was  Mary  Marchmont  whom  he  had  come  to  see, 
then;  not  her.  Was  she  never  to  be  anything? 
Was  she  to  be  forever  insulted  by  this  humiliat- 
ing indifl'erence.-  A  dark  flush  came  over  her 
fiice,  as  she  drew  her  head  up  v/ith  the  air  of  an 
oflended  empress,  and  looked  angrily  at  her 
cousin.  Alas !  he  did  not  even  sec  that  indignant 
glance.  He  was  bending  over  Mary,  telling  her 
in  a  low,  tender  voice,  of  the  grief  he  had  felt  at 
learning  the  news  of  her  fatticr's  death. 

Olivia  Marchmont  looked  with  an  eager,  scru- 
tinizing gaze  at  her  step-daughter.  Could  it  be 
poti'-ible  that  Edward  Arundel  might  ever  come 
to  love  this  girl  r  ComIiI  such  a  thine  Ic  po^iibJc.' 
A  hideous  depth  of  horror  and  confusion  seemed 
to  open  before  her  with  the  thought.  In  all  til* 
past,  among  all  things'  eh*  ba4  insgia«d,  »a0SS 


50  JOHN   MARCHMONT'S  LEGACY. 

all  the  calamities  she  had  pictured  to  herself,  she  :  being  under  the  spell  of  Edward  Arundel's  pre- 
had  never  thought  of  anjr  thing  like  this.    Would  <  sence. 

such  a  thing  ever  come  to  pass  ?  Would  she  ever  But  she  made  no  attempt  to  prevent  his  stop- 
grow  to  hate  this  girl — this  girl,  who  had  been  i  ping  at  the  Towers,  though  a  word  from  her 
intrusted  to  her  by  her  dead  husband — with  the  j  would  have  effectually  hindered  his  coming.  Aj 
most  terrible  hatred  that  one  woman  could  feel  <  dull  torpor  of  despair  took  possession  of  her;  a 
toward  another?  ;  black   apprehension    paralyzed   her  mind.     She 

[n  the  next  moment  she  Avas  anfry  with  her- j  *'«^t  that  a  pit  of  horror  v/as  opting  before  her 
self  for  the  abject  folly  of  this  new^ terror.  She  1  ignorant  feet.  All  that  she  had  sudcred  v/as  as 
had  never  yet  learned  to  think  of  Mary  as  a  wo-  \  "othmg  to  what  she  was  about  to  sufler.  Let  it 
mail.  She  had  never  thought  of  her  otherwise  '^e,  then.  "What  could  she  do  to  keep  this  tor- 
ihan  as  the  pale  childlike  girl  who  had  come  to  !  1-ure  away  from  her?  Let  it  come,  since  it 
her  meekly ,  day  after  day,  to  recite  difficult  les- '  seemed  that  it  must  come  in  some  shape  or  other, 
sons,  standing  in  a  submissive  attitude  before  her,  <  She  thought  all  this  while  she  sat  back  in  a 
and  rendering  obedience  to  her  in  all  things,  i  corner  of  the  carriage  watching  the  two  faces 
Was  it  likely,  was  it  possible,  that  this  pale- ;  opposite  to  her,  as  Edward  and  Mary,  seated 
faced  girl  Avould  £nter  into  the*  lists  against  her  ,'  ■^•'^•i  their  backs  to  the  horses,  talked  together  in 
in  tiie  great  battle  of  her  life?  Was  it  likely  that  ^,  low,  conhdential  tones,  v/hich  scarcely  reached 
she  was  to  find  her  adversary  and  her  conqueror  <  h"'  ^^^-  ^^^  thought  all  this. during  the  short 
here,  in  the  meek  child  who  had  been  committed  f.^^^ve  between  Kemberling  and  Marchmont 
to  her  chai-ne?  .  <;  Towers;  and  when  the  carriage  drev/ up  before 

,,,  i^u  J   I         ,       1       v.i     >    <•  -.u      'the  low  Tudor  portico,  the  dark  shadov/ had  set- 

bhe  watched  her  step^laughter  s  face  with  a..  ,^^  ^^^  ^^^.  ^^J     j^^;  ^^.^^  ^^^ 

jealou,,  hungry  gaze      Was  it  beautiful?    No     Ed.vard  Arundel  conic;  let  the  worst  conie.    She 
he  K'-aUires  were  delicate;  the  Drown  eyes  soft  > ,     ,  „^         ,    ,      v  „  v,       *..•    i   .      i„  i        i   .        u 
.  ,       ,.,         ,        .  ,       I  .,    ,   .,•'  /had  strua^Kied;  she  had  tried  to  do  her  dutv;  she 

and  dove  ikc,  almost  lovely,  now  that  they  were  <  ,     ,   ^.  ••'^      .'     ,        ,  ^^      n  i.   i        j     *•   •' 

,    ,    I   ,  '  ,.   ,.■"     ^i        1     1    y    I    1    <liad  striven   to   be  good,     iiut  her  destiny  was 

irradiated  by  a  new  light,  as  they  looked  shyly/   ,  .u  .   u      T,ir        i  i  „,i  v,         i+.u-  s, 

.  ,,,       ■',   .        111?*  *i,    •»  •  1  >   f  •' /stronger  than  hcrseli,  and  had  brouftht  this  younec 

up  at  Ldv/ard  Arundel.     But  the  girl  s  face^was  /     ■••='  .      .        .  ..         .  *=■  ~  J  ,     » 

wan    and  colorless.     It  lack 

beauty.     It  was  only  after  yo«  .a.  .ww..u  ..  ..o.  <  ^.^^^^     ^  ^^j_^,^   ^j^^^   .^   ^^^.^  ^^.^,^  ^^  ^^^.  j.^^_  ^,.^ 


"  ,  '    ,     ,  Ti   1     1     J    *i''        1      iJI.     >■;  soldier  over  land  and  sea,  safe  out  of  every  dan- 

and  colorless.     It  lacked   the  splenddT-  of  rescued  from  everv  oeril    to  be  her  destyiir- 

ty.     It  was  only  after  you  had  looked  at  her  '  f^'  lescued    lom  e\ery  peui,  to  oe  net  destnc- 

,.•',,.     •',,    .      •'     ,  .    .1-   I    *i     'lion.     1  think   that   in    this  crisis  ot  her  Iiie  the 

for  a  very  long  time  that  you  began  to  think  the  /  ,     .  r  .   .  „<•  r'^.„;^^;„„  i;  vK+  f^^A.A  ^.  f"    e  .i,- 

f  .,■'        ".,  ■'  "  .         /  last  faint  ray  of  Lhristian  fight  laded  out  ot  this 

laceratnerpreuj.  / 1^,^  Avoman's   soul,   leaving    utter  darkness  and 

The  fiije  yeaft  during  which  Edward  Arundel  J  desolation.     The  oJdJandmarks,  dimly  described 

had  been  away  had  made  little  alteration  in  him.  '  in  the  weary  deser^  »v  — '-  ^— -  ' -  -^    -" 

lie  wiis  rather  stouter,  perhaps;  his  amber  mus- ;!  quicksands,  and   shi^A 


aank  forever  down  into  the 
was  left  alone — alone  with 


tache  thicker;  his  manner  more  dashing  than  ot',i\ev  despair.  Her  jealous  soul  prophesied  the 
old.  Tnc  mark  of  a  sabre-cut  under  the  cluster-  /'evil  whicli  she  dreaded.  This  man,  whose  indif- 
ing  chestnut  curls  upon  the  temple  gave  him  a  /  ference-to  her  was  almost  an  insult,  would  fall  in 
certain  soldierly  dignity.  He  seemed  a  man  off.|ovc  with  Mary  Marchmont— v/ith  Mary  March- 
tlie  v/orld  now,  and  Mary  Marchmont  was  rather  Smont,  whose  eyes'  lit  up  inlO' new  beauty  under 
afrafdofhim.     He  was  so  different  to  the  Lin- 5  the  glances  of  his,  whose  pale  face  blushed  into 


c'.itishire  squires,  the  bashful  younger  sons  who  J  faint  bloom  as,h.9  talked  to  her.     The  girl's  un- 
were  to  be  educated  for  the  Church.     He  was  so  ;;  jisguised   admiration    would    flatter    the  j^oung 
dashing,  so  elega^it,  so  splendid  !     From  the  vvav-  jl  man's  vanity,  and  he  would  fail  in  love  with  her 
■ace  of  his  hair  to  the  tip  of  the  polished  ^  out  of  very  frivolity  and  weakness  of  purpose 
Deeping  out  of  his  well-cut  trowsers  (there  ;;      <He  is  weak  and  vain,  and  foolisn  and  frivolc 
no  peg-tops  in   1847,  and  it  v/as  le  genre  to ',  i  Jsi-e  say,'  Olivia  thought;    'and   if  I  were 
very  little  of  the  boot),  he  was  a  creature^  (]ij,g  j^iyseiTjipon  my  knees  at  his  feet,  and 
wondered  at,  to  be  almost  reverenced.  Mar)  ;;  him  that  r?J^ed  him,  he  would  be  flattered: 


_       .        .  .. .„..ity, 

ing  si,race  of  his  hair  to  the  tip  of  the  polished  ;.  out  of  very  frivolity  and  weakness  of  purpose 
boot  peeping  out  of  his  well-cut  trowsers  (there  ;;  <He  is  weak  and  vain,  and  foolisn  and  frivolous, 
were  no  peg-tops  in  1847,  and  it  v/as  le  genre  to ',  i  Jsi-e  say,'  Olivia  thought;  'and  if  I  were  to 
sliow  very  little  of  the  boot),  he  was  a  creature^  (]ij,g  j^iyseiTjipon  my  knees  at  his  feet,  and  tell 
t»  be  wondered  at,  to  be  almost  reverenced.  Mar)  ;;  him  that  r?J^ed  him,  he  would  be  flattered  and 
■lliought.  She  could  not  help  admiring  the  cut  of  [  grateful,  and  would  be  ready  to  return  my  afiec- 
his  coat,  the  easy  noiichalance  of  his  manner,  the  ;  tion.  If  I  could  tell  him  what  this  girl  tells  him 
waxed  ends  of  his  curved  mustache,  the  dang-;;  in  every  look  and  word,  he  would  be  as  pleased 
ling  toys  of  gold  and  enamel  that  jingled  at  his  ?  vvilh  me  as  he  is  with  her.! 

watch-chain,  the  waves  of  perfume  that  floated  ^  Her  lip  curled  with  Unutterajale  scorn  as  she 
away  from  bis  cambric  handkerchief.  She  was  >  (.bought  this.  She  ATas  so  despicable  to  herself 
childish  enough  to  worship  all  these  external  at-;!  by  the  deep  humiliation  of  her  wasted  love,  that 
tributes  in  her  hero.  '  " ■  ' 


'Shall  I  invite  him  to  Marchmont  Towers? 


'/the  object  of  that  foolish  passion  seemed  despica- 
'cble  also.      She    was   forever  weighing   Edward 


Olivia  thought;  and  while  she  was  deliberating;- Arundel  against  all  the  tortuies'she  had  endured 
upon  this  question,  Mary  Marchmont  cried  out,  /  for  his  sake,  and  forever  finding  him  wanting. 
'  You  will  stop  at  the  Towers,  won't  you,  Mr.  ^  He  must  have  been  a  demi-god  if  his  perfections 
Arundel,  as  you  did  when  poor  papa  was  alive?'/  could  have  outweighed  so  much  misery;  and  for 
'  '  Most  decidedly,  Miss  Marchmont,' the  young/ this  reason  sl^p  was  unjust  to  her  cousin,  and 
man  answered.  'I  mean  to  throw  myself  upon  /  could  not  accept  him  for  that  which  he  really 
your  hospitality  as  confidingly  as  I  did  a  long/ was — agenerous-hearted,  candid, honorable  young 
time  ago  in  Oakley  Street,  when  you  gave  me  hoij  man — not  a  great  man  or  a  wonderful  man — a 
rolls  for  my  breakfast. '  /  brave  and  honest-rninded  soldier,  vfery  well  worthy 

Mary  laughed  aloud;  perhaps  for  the  first  time  ^  of  a  good  woman's  love, 
since  her  father's  death.     Olivia  bit  her  lip.    She? 

was  of  so  little  account,  then,  she  thought,  that  ?  Mr.  Arundel  stayed  at  th'e  Towers,  occupying 
Ihej  did  not  care  to  consult  her.  A  gloomy  /  the  room  which  had  been  his  in  John  March- 
shadow  spread  itself  over  her  face.  Already,/ mont's  lifetime;  and  a  nCiVy  existence  began  for 
8h»  began  to  bate  this  palefaced,  childish  orphan  j  Mary.  "The  young  iman  was  delighted  with  his 
girl,  who  seemed  to  be  transformecl  into  a  new.  j old  friend's  daughter.    Amidst  all  the  Calcutta 


JOHN  MARCHMONT'S  LEGACY.  51 

belles  whom  iieiiaJ  danced  with  at  Govcnimcnt-i  doubtless  have  taken  Mjiry  Marciimont  wilii  her, 
House  balls,  and  flirted  with  upon  the  Indian  \  but  the  girl'  had  been  suffering  from  a  violent' 
race-coufse,  he  could  remember  no  one  as  fasci-Micadache  throughout  the  burning  summer  day, 
nating  as  this  girl,  who  seemed  as  childlike  now,  <  and  had  kept  her  room.  Edward  Arundel  had 
in  her  early  womanhood,  as  she  had  been  wo-j  gone  out  early  in  the  morning  upon  a  fishing  ex- 
manly  while  she  was  a  child.  Her  naive  tender-lcursion  to  a  famous  trout-strelm  seven  or  eight 
ness  for  himself  bewitched  and  enraptured  him.  Smiles  from  the  Towers,  and  was  not  likely  to  re- 
Who  could  have  avoided  being  charmed  by  that ;  turn  until  after  nightfall.  There  was  no  chance, 
pure  and  innocent  aflection,  which  was  as  freely  ^therefore,  of  a  meeting  between  Mary  and  the 
given  by  the  girl  of  eighteen  as  it  had  been  by ''young  odicer,  Olivia,  thought;  no  chance  of  any 
the  child,  and  was  unchanged  in  characterby  the  confidential  talk  -which  she  would  not  be  by  to 
lapse  of  years?    Tlie  young  ofiicer  had  been  so' hear. 

much  adniired  and  caressed  in  Calcutta,  that  per- .  Did  Edward  Arundel  love  the  pale-faced  girl 
haps,  by  reason  of  his  successes,  Ire  had  returned  '  who  revealed  her  devotion  to  him  with  such  child- 
to  England  heart-v/bole;  and  he  abandoned  him- 'like  unconsciousness?  Olivia  Marchmont  had  not 
self,  without  T,ny  .arriere-pensee,  to  the  quiet  hap-  been  able  to  answer  that  question.  She  had 
pinoss  which  he  felt  in  Mary  Marchmont 's  society,  sounded  the  young  man  several  times  upon  his 
I  do  not  say  that  he  was  intoxicated  by  her  beauty,  feelings  toward  her  stepdaughter;  but  he  had 
which  was  by  no  means  of  the  intoxicating  order,  met  her  hints  and  insinuations  with  perfect  frank- 
er that  ho  was  madly  in  love  with  her.  The  gen-:  ness,  declaring  that  Mary  seemed  as  much  a  child 
tie  fascination  of  her  society  crept  upon  him  be-:  to  him  now  as  she  had  appeared  nearly  nine  years 
forp  he  was  aware  of  its  influence.  He  had  :  before  in  Oakley  Street,  and  that  the  pleasure  he 
never  taken  the  trouble  to  examine  his  own  feel.-  took  in  her  society  was  only  sucli  as  he  might 
ings;  they  were  disengaged — as  free  as  butterflies:  have  felt  in  that  of  any  innocent  and  confidipg 
to  settle  upon  which  flower  might  seem  the  fair-   child. 

est;  and  he  had  therefore  no  need  to  put  himself  *  Hftr  simplicity  is  so  bewitching,  you  know, 
under  a  course  of  rigorous  self-examination.  As.  Livy,'  he  said;  'She  looks  up  in  my  face,  and 
yet  he  jjelievcd  that  the  pleasure  he  now  felt  in  trusts  me  with  all  her  little  secrets,  and  tells  mc 
Mary's  society  was  the  same  order  of  the  enjoy-'  hcrdreams  about  her  dead  father,  and  all  her  fool- 
ment  he  had  experienced  five  years  before,  ivhcn  isli,  innocent  fancied,  as  confidingly  as  if  I  were 
he  had  taught  her  chess,  and  promised  het-  long'  some  play-fellow  of  her  own  age  and  sex.  She's 
rambles  by  the  sea-shore.  '  so  refreshing  after  the  artificial  belles  of  a  Cal- 

They  had  no  long  rambles  no'.v  in  solitary  lanes  cutta  ball-room,  with  their  stereotyped  fascina- 
and  under  flowering  hedgerows,  beside  the  waving' tions  and  their  complete  manual  of  flirtation,  the 
green  corn.  Olivia  watched  therii  with  untiring  same  forever  and  ever.  She  is  such  a  pretty  little 
eyes.  The  tortures  to  which  a  jealous  woman :  spontaneous  darling,  with  her  soft,  shy,  brown 
may  condemn  herself  are  not  niuch  greater  than /eyes,  and  her  low  voice,  which  always  sounds 
those  she  can  inflict  upon  others.  Mrs.  March-'  to  me  like  the  cooing  of  tiic  doves  in  the  poultrj- 
mont  took  good  care  that  her  ward  and  her  cousin  '  yard.' 

were  not  too  happy.  Wherever  they  went  she';  I  think  that  Olivia,  in  the  depth  of  her  gloomy . 
went  also;  whenever  they  spoke  she  listened;  despair,  took  some  comfort  from  such  speeches 
whatever  arrangement  was  mo*t  likelj'  to  please f  as  these.  Was  this  frank  expression  of  regard 
them  was  opposed  by  her.  Edward  wasnot  cox-'  for  Mary  Marchmont  ii  token  of  love  ?  No;  not 
comb  enough  to  have  any  suspicion  of  the  reason  ,as  the  widow  understood  the  stormy  madness, 
of  this  conduct  on  his  cousin's  part.  He  only  ;  Love  to  her  had  been  a  dark  and  terrible  passion, 
spiilcd  and  shrugged  his  shoulders,  and  attributed  a  thing  to  be  concealed,  as  monomaniacs  have , 
her  watchfulness  to  an  overstrained  sense  of  her  somet'imes  contrived  to  keep  the  secret  of  their 
responsibility  and  the  necessity  of  sarveillance.  ;  mania,  until  it  burst  forth  at  last,  fatal  and  irrc- 
'Does  she  think  me  such  a  villain  and  a  traitor,'  pressible,  in  some  direful  work  of  wreck  and 
he  thought,  'that  she  fears  to  leave  me  alone  with  ;  ruin'.  , 

my  dead  friend's  orjilian  daughter,  lest  !  should  ;  So  Olivia  Marchmont  took  an  crM'ly  dinner 
whisper  corruption  into  her  inno6tentear?  How; alone,  and  drove  away  from  the  Towers  at  four 
little  these,  good  wom^n  know  of'us,  after  all!  :o'clock  on  a  blazing  summer  afternoon,  more  at 
VVhat  vulgar  suspicions  and  narrow-minded  fears  ! peace  perhaps  than  she  had  been  since  Edward 
injiucnre  them  against  us!  Are  they  honorable  !  Arundel's  coming.  Slie  paid  her  dutiful  visit  ti 
and  honest  toward  each  other,  1  wonder,  that  they  her  father,  sat  with  him  for  some  time,  talked  to 
can  entertain  such  pitiful  doubts  of  our  honor  and  .the  two  old  servants  who  waited  upon  him, 
honesty?'  [walked   two   or  three  times   up   and   dowo  the 

So  hour  after  liour  and  da^^  after  day  Olivia   neglected  garden,  and   then  drove  hack  to  the 
Marchniont  kept  •\\""at'ch  and  \TOrd  over  Edward  ,  To«  ers. 

and  Mary.  Jt  was  strange  that  love  could  bios- ;  The  first  object  upon  which  her  eyes  fell  as 
som  in  such  an  atmosphere;  it  seems  strange  that :  she  entered  the  hall  was  Edward  Arundel's  fish- 
thc  cruel  gaze  of  those  hard  gray  eyes  did  not !  ing-tacklc  lying  in  disorder  upon  an  oaken 
chill  the  two  innocent  hearts,  and  prevent  their ;!  bench  near  the  broad  arched  door  that  opened 
free  expansion.  But  it  was  not  so.  The  egotism  ;  out  into  the  quadrangle.  An  angry  flush  mounted 
of  love  was  all  omnipotent.  Neither  Edward  ■*  to  her  face  as  she  turned  upon  the  servant  near 
nor  Mary  was  conscious  of  the  evil  light  in  the ,  her. 

glance  that  so  often  rested  upon  them.    The  uni-!     *Mr.  Arundol  ha«  come  home?'  she  said, 
verse  nt^towed  itself  to   the  one  spot  of  earth;     'Yes,  ma'am — he  came  in  half  an  hour  ago; 
upon  wh^  these  two  stood  side  by  side.  ^but  he  went  out  again  almost  directly  with  Miss 

Edward  Arundel  had  been  more  than  a  month ;  Marchmont.' 
at  Marchmont  Towers  when  Olivia  went,  upon  !     'Indeed!  I  thought  Miss  Marchmont  was  in  her 
a  hot  July  evening,  to  Swaranington,.  on  a  brief  ;room?' 
visit  to  the  Rector— a  visit  oi  duty.    She  would  ;     'No,  ma'am;  she  came  down  to  the  drawing. 


58 


JOHN  MARCHMONT'S  LEGACY. 


room  about  an  hour  after  you  left.    Her  head  )  you.     It  is  your  innocence  I  love,  Polly  dear — let 

wa3  better,  ma'am,  s^e  said.'  ;  me  call  you  Polly,  as  1  used  five  years  ago— and 

'And  .she  went  out  with  Mr.  Arundel.'    Do  you    1  wouldn't  have  you  otherwise  for  all  the  world. 

know  which  way  they  went.''  ,  Do  you  know  that  sometimes  [  am  almost  sorry  1 

'Yes,   ma'am;    I    heard    Mr.  Arundel  say  he  lever  came  back  to  Marchmont  Towers.'' 
wanted  to  look   at   the   old    boat-house   by  the        '  Sorry  you  came   back .''  cried    Mary,   in  a 
river.'  tone  of  alarm.     '  Oh,  why  do  you  say  that,  Mr. 

'And  they  have  gone  there .-'  Arundel .'' 

'I  think  so,  ma'am.'  ,      '  Because  you  are  heiress  to  eleven  thousand 

'Very  good^  I' will  go  down  to  them.  Miss  ;  a  year,  Mary,  and  the  Moated  Grange  behind  us; 
Marchmont  must  not  stop  out  in  the  night-air.  and  this  dreary  wood,  and  the  river — the  river  is 
The  dew  is  falling  already.'  yours,  1  dare  say.  Miss  Marchmont;  and  I  wish 

The  door  leading  into  the  quadrangle  was  open,  J  you  joy  of  the  possession  of  so  much  sluggish 
and  Olivia  swept  across  tne  broad  threshold,  ;  water  and  so  many  square  miles  of  swamp  and 
haughty  and  self-possessed,  very  stately-looking  ,  fen.' 

in  her  long  black  garments.  She  still  wore;  '  But  what  then.'' Mary  asked,  wonderingly. 
mourning  for  her  dead  husband.  What  induce- ;  '  What  then .'  Do  you  know,  Polly  darling, 
ment  had  she  ever  had  to  cast  off  that  sombre  ;  that  if  1  ask  you  to  marry  me  people  will  call  me  , 
attire?  What  need  to  trick  herself  out  in  gay  j  a  fortune-liunter,  and  declare  that  I  came  to 
colors.'  What  loving  eyes  would  be  charmed  by  ■Marchmont  Towers  bent  upon  stealing  its  heir- 
her  splendor .'  She  went  out  of- the  door,  across  ess 's  innocent  heart  before  she  had  learned  the 
the  quadrangle,  under  a  stone  archway,  and  into  '  value  of  the  estate  that  must  go  along  with  it .' 
the  low  stunted  wood,  which  was  gloomy  even  in  !  God  knows  they'd  wrong  me,  Polly,  as  cruelly  as 
the  summer  time.  The  setting  sun  was  shining  i  ever  an  honest  man  was  wronged;  for,  so  long  as 
upon  the  western  front  of  the  Towers;  but  here  j  I  have  money  to  pay  my  tailor  and  tobacconist — 
all  seemed  cold  and  desolate.  The  damp  mists  ;  and  I've  more  than  enough  for  both  of  them — I 
were  rising  fronv  the  sodden  ground  beneath  the  j  want  nothing  further  of  the  world's  wealth, 
trees.  The  frogs  v/ere  croaking  down  by  the  )  What  should  I  do  with  all  this  swamp  and  fen, 
river-side.  With  her  small  white  teeth  set,  and  J  Miss  Marchmont — with  all  that  horrible  compli- 
her  breath  coming  in  fitful  gasps,  Olivia  March-  cation  of  expired  leases  to  be  renewed,  and  in- 
mont  hurried  to  the  water's 'edge,  winding  in  and  ;  come-taxes  to  be  appealed  against,  that  rich  peo- 
out  between  the -trees,  tearing  her  black  dress  ;  pie  have  to  endure.'  If  you  were  not  rich, 
among  the  brambles,  scorning  all  beaten  paths, ;  Polly,  I — ' 

heedless  where  she  trod,  so  long  as  she  made  her  ;  He  stopped  and  laughed,, striking  the  toe  of  his 
way  speedily  to  the  spot  she  wanted  to  reach.  j  boot  among  the  weeds,  and  knocking  the  pebbles 
At  last  the  black  sluggish  river  and  the  old  ;  into  the  water.  The  woman  crouching  in  the 
boat-house  came  in  sight,  between  a  long  vista  ;  shadow  of  the  archway  listened  with  whitened 
of  ugly  distorted  trunks  and  gnarled  branches  of  ;  cheeks  and  glaring  eyes;  listened  as  she  might 
pollard  oak  and  willow.  The  building  was  dreary  j  hafe  listened  to  the  sentence  of  her  death,  drink- 
aod  dilapidated  looking,  for  the  improvements  ;  ing  in  every  syllable,  in  her  ravenous  desire  to 
commenced  by  Edward  Arundel  Yive  years  ago  ;  lose  no  breath  that  told  her  of  her  anguish, 
had  never  been  fully  carried  out;  but  it  was  sufii-  i  '  If  1  were  not,  rich  !'  murmured  Mary;  '  vv;hat 
ciently  substantial,  and  bore  no  traces  of  positive  j  if  I  were  not  rich." 

decay.  Down  by  tl»e  water's  edge  there  was  a  1  'I  should  tell  you  how  dearly  I  love  you,PolJy, 
great  cavernous  recess  for  the  shelter  of  the  5  and  ask  you  to  be  my  wife  by-and-by.' 
boats,  and  above  this  there  was  a  pavilion,  built  *  The  girl  looked  up  at  him  for  a  few  moments 
of  brick  and  stone,  containing  two  decent-sized  j  in  silence,  shyly  at  first,  and  then  more  boldly, 
chambers,  willi  latlicM  windo.ws  overlooking  the  <  with  a  beautiful  light  kindling  in  her  eyes. 
river.  A  flight  of  stone  steps  with  an  iron  balus- !  '1  love  you  dearly,  too,  Mr.  Arundel,'  she 
trade  led  up  to'  the  door  of  this  pavilion,  which  i  said,  at  last;  '  an.d  I  would  rather  you  had  my 
was  supported  upon  the  solid  side-walls  of  the  !. money  than  any  one  else  in  the  world;  and 
boat-house  below.  !  there  wa?  soniiething  in  papa's  will  that  made  mc 

In  the  stillness  of  the  summer  twilight  Olivia  ^  think — ' 
heard  the  voices  of  those  whom  she  came  to  seek,  j  '  He  would  wish  this,  Polly,' cried  the  young 
They  were  standing  down  by  the  edge  of  the  wa- !  man,  clasping  the  trembling  little  figure  to  his 
ter,  upon  a  narrow  pathway  that  ran  along  by  i  breast.  '  Mr.  Pauletle  sent  me  a  copy  of  the 
the  sedgy  brink  of  the  river,  and  only  a  few  paces  j  will,  Pdlly,  when  he  sent  my  diamond  ring;  and 
from  the  pavilion.  The  door  of  the  boat-house  ]  I  think  there  were  some  words  in  it  that  hinted 
was  open;  a  long-disused  wherry  lay  rotting  upon  at  such  a  wish., .Your  father  said  he  left  mc  this 
the  damp  and  mos-sy  flags.  Olivia  crept  into  the  i  legacy,  darling — ^I  have  his  letter  still — the  legacy 
shadowy  recess.  The  door  that  faced  the  river!  of  a  helpless  girl.  God  knows  I  will  try  to  be 
had  fallen  from  its  rusty  hinges,  and  the  slimy  j  worthy  of  such  a  trust,  Mary  dearest;  God  knows 
wood-work  lay  in  ruins  upon  the  threshold  of  the  I  will  be  faithful  to  my  promise,  made  nine  years 
dark  recess.     Sheltered   by  the  stone-  archway    ago. ' 

that  had  once  been  closed  by  this  door,  Olivia  |     The  woman  listening  in  the  dark  archway  sank 
listened  to  the  voices  beside  the  still  water.  |  down  upon  the  damp  flags  at  hep  feet,  among  the 

Mai-y  Marchmont  was  standing  close  to  the  |  slimy  rotten  wood  and  rusty  iron  nails  and  hinges, 
liver's  edge;  Edward  stood  beside  her,  leaning  She  sat  there  for  a  long  time,  not  unconscious, 
against  the  trunk  of  a  willow  that  grew  close  to  I  but  quite  motionless,  her  white  fsM  leaning 
the  water.  ,  against  the  moss-grown  arch,  staring  Blankly  out 

•My  childish  darling,'  the  young  man  mur- 1  of  the  black  shadows.  She  sat  there  and  listened, 
mured,  as  if  in  reply  to  something  his  companion  \  while  the  lovers  talked  in  low  tender  murmurs  of 
had  said,  '  and  so  you  think,  because  you  are  Uhe  sorrov/ful  past  and  of  the  unknown  future; 
simplc-mind«d  and  innocent,  I  am  not  to  love  (the  beautiful  untrodden  region,  in  which  they 


John  marcdmont's  legacy. 


^3 


wei'c  to  go  hand  in  hand  through  all  the  lohg  j 
years  of  quiet  happiness  between  that  moment  | 
and  the  grave.  She  sat  and  listened  till  the  ; 
moonlight  faintly  shimmered  upon  the  water,  and  j 
the  footsteps  of  the  lovers  died  away  upon  the  | 
narrow  pathway  by  which  they  went  back  to  the  ! 
house.  •  i 

Olivia  Marchmont  did  not  move  until  an  hour  \ 
after  they  had  gone.  Then  she  raised  herself; 
with  an  effort  and  walked  with  stiHcned  limbs  I 
slowly  and  painfully  to  the  house,  and  to  her  own  ; 
room,  where  she  locked  her  door  and  flung  her- 1 
self  upon  the  ground  in  the  darkness.  j 

Mary  came  to  her  to  ask  why  stie  did  not  come  ' 
to  the  drawing-room,  and  Mrs.  Marchmont  an- 1 
swered,  with  a  hoarse  voice,  that  she  was  ill, and  ; 
wished  to  be  alone.  Neither  Mary  nor  the  old  '. 
woman-servant  who  had  nursed  Olivia,  and  had 
some  little  influence  over  her,  could  get  ^y  other  ■ 
answer  than  this.  ; 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

DRIVEN    AWAY. 

Maiiy  Marchmont  and  Edward  Arundel  were 
happy.  They  were  happy;  and  how  should  they 
guess  at  the  tortures  of  that  desperate  woman, 
whose  benighted  soul  was  plunged  in  a  black  gulf 
of  horror  by  reas^ftin  of  their  innocent  love?  How 
should  thes6  two — very  children  in  their  igno- 
rance of  all  stormy  passions,  all  direful  emo- 
tion*— know,  that  in  the  darkened  chamber 
where  Olivia  Marchmont  lay,  suffering  under 
some  vague  illness,  for  which  the  Swampington 
doctojr  was  fain  to  prescribe  riuinine,  in  utteb  un- 
consciousness as  to  the  real  nature  of  the  disease 
which  he  was  called  upon  to  cure — how  should 
they  know  that  in  that  gloomy  chamber  a  wicked 
heart  was  abandoning  itself  to  all  the  devils  that 
had  so  long  held  patient  watch  for  this  day? 

Yes,  the  struggle  was  over.  Olivia  March- 
mont flung  aside  the  cross  she  bad  borne  in  dull, 
mechanical  obedience,  rather  than  in  Christian 
love  and  truth.  Better  to  have  been  sorrowful 
Magdalene,  forgiven  for  her  love  and  tears,  than 
this  cold,  haughty,  stainless  woman,  who  had 
never  been  able  to  learn  the  sublime  lessons 
which  so  many  sinners  have  taken  meekly  to 
heart.  The  religion  which  was  wanting  in  the 
vital  principle  of  Christianity,  the  faith  which 
showed  itself  only  in  dogged  obedience,  failed 
this  woman  in  the  hour  of  her  agony.  Her  pride 
arose;  the  defiant  spirit  of  the  fallen  angel  as- 
serted its  gloomy  grandeur. 

•  What  have  I  done  that  I  should  suffer  like 
this?' she  thought.  '  What  am  I  that  an  empty- 
headed  soldier  should  despise  me,  and  that  I 
should,  go  mad  because  of  his  indifference?  Is 
this  the  rccomjicTiao  for  my  long  years  of  .obe- 
dience? Is  this  the  reward  Heaven  bestows  upon 
me  for  my  life  of  duty  r 

She  rcmcmbcrrd  the  histories  of  other  wo- 
men— women  who  had  gone  Iheir  own  way  and 
had  been  happy;  and  a  darker  question  arose  in 
her  mind,  almost  the  question  which  Job  asked  in 
his  agony. 

'  Is  there  neither  truth  nor  justice  in  the  deal- 
ings of  God,  she  thought.  '  Is  it  useless  to  be 
obedient  and  submissive,  patient  and  untiring? 
.  Has  all  my  life  been  a  great  mistake,  which  is  to 
end  in  confusion  and  despair?' 


And  then  she  pictured  to  herself  the  life  that 
might  have  been  hers  if  Edward  Arundel  had 
loved  her.  How  good  she  would  have  been ! 
The  hardness  of  her.  iron  nature  would  have  been 
melted  and  subdued  in  the  depth  of  her  love  and 
tenderness  for  him.  She  would  have  learned  to 
be*loving  and  tender  to  others.  Her  wealth  of 
afl'eclion  for  him  would  have  overflowed  in  gen- 
tleness and  consideration  for  every  creature  in 
the  universe.  The  lurking  bitterness  which  had 
lain  hidden  in  her  heart. ever  since  she  had  first 
loved  Edward  Arundel,  and  first  discovered  his 
indifference  to  her;  and  the  poisonous  envy  of 
happier  women,  who  had  loved  and  were  be- 
loved— would  have  been  blotted  away.  Her 
whole  nature  would  have  undergone  a  wondrous 
transfigur-tion,  purified  ijnd  exalted  by  the 
strength  of  her  affection.  'All  this  might  have 
come  to  pass  if  he  had  loved  her — if  he  had  only- 
loved  her.  Hut  a  palc-face»l  child  had  come  be- 
tween her  and  this  redemption,  and  there  was  no- 
thing left  for  her  hut  despair. 

Nothing  but  despair?  Yes;  perhaps  something 
further — revenge. 

But  this  last  idea  took  no  tangible  shape.  She 
only  knew  that  in  the  black  darkness  of  the  gulf 
into  which  her  soul  had  gone  down  there  was,  far 
away  somewhere,  one  ray  of  lurid  liglit.  She 
only  knew  this  as  yet,  and  that  she  hated  Mary 
Marchmont  v.'ith  a  mad  and  wicked  hatred.  If 
she  could  have  thought  meanly  of  Edward  Arun- 
del— if  she  could  have  believed  him  to  be  ac- 
tuated by  mercenary  motives  in  his  choice  of  the 
orphan  girl — she  might  have  taken  some'  comfort 
from  the  thought  of  his  unworthiness,  and  of 
Mary's  proba'l)le  sorrow  in  the  days  tp  come.  But 
she  could  not  think  this.  Little  as  the  young  sol- 
dier had  said  in  the  summer  twilight*bcside  the 
river,  there  had  been  that  in  his  tones  and  looks 
tliat  had  convinced  liie  wretched  watcher  of  his 
truth.  Mary  might  have  been  deceived  by  the 
shallowest  pretender;  but  Olivia's  eyes  devoured 
every  glance;  Olivia's  greedy  ears  drank  in  every 
tone;  and  she  kneio  that  Edward' Arundel  loved 
her  step-daughter. 

She  knew  this,  and  she  hated  Mary  March- 
mont. What  had  she  done,  this  girl  who  had 
never  known  what  it  was  to  fight  a  battle  with 
her  own  rebellious  heart — what  had  she  done, 
that  all  this  wenlth  of  love  and  happiness  siiould 
drop  into  her  lap  unsought — comparatively  un- 
valued, perhaps. 

John  Marrhmont's  widow  lay  in  her  darkened 
chamber,  thinking  over  these  things;  no  longer 
flgliting  the  battle  with  her  own  heart,  but  utterly 
abandoning  herself  to  her  desperation — recliless, 
hardened,  impenitent. 

Edward  Arundel  could  not  very  well  remain 
at  the  Towers  while  the  reputed  illness  of  his 
hostess  kept  her  to  her  room.  He  went  over  to 
Swampington)  therefore,  upon  a  dutiful  visit  to 
his  uncle;  but  rode  to  the  Towers  every  day  to 
inquire  very  particularly  after  his  cousin's  pro- 
gress, and  to  di^wdle  on  the  sunny  western  ter- 
^^ace  with  Mary  Marchmont. 

Their  innocent  happine-is  needs  little  descrip- 
tion. Edward  Arundel  retained  a  good  deal  ol 
that  boyish  chivalry  which  ha<l  made  him  »<i 
eager  to  become  the  little  girl's  champion,  in  lh>- 
days  gone  by.  Contact  with  the  world  had  not 
much  sullied  the  frohness  of  (he  young  m.in'n 
spiri^  He  loved  his  innocent  childish  com- 
panion with  the  purest  and  truest  doToUon;  and  b(f 
was  proud  of  the  recollection  that  io  the  day  of 


54  JOHN  MARCHMONT'S  LEGACY. 

his  poverty  John  Marchmont  had  chosen  him  as  '  for  her  pleasure.     He  talked  to  her  of  the  Indian 
the  future  shelterer  of  this  tender  blossom.  campaign;  and   she   asked    a   hundi-ed  questions 

'  You  must  never  grow  any  older  or  more  about  midnight  marches  and  solitary  encamp- 
Avomanly,  Polly,'  he  said  sonjetimcs  to  the  young  :  ments,  fainting  camels,  lurking  tigers  in  the  dark- 
mistress  of  Marchmont  Towers.  '  Remember  ness  of  the  jungle,  intercepted  supplies  of  pro- 
that  I  always  love  you  best  when  I  think  of  you  vision,  stolen  ammunition,  and  all  the  other  de- 
as   the   little   girl  in   the  shabby  pinafore,  who  ;  tails  of  the  vs^ar.  d 

poured  out  my  tea  for  me  one  bleak  December       Olivia  arose  at  last,  before  the  Swampington 
morning  in  Oakley  Street.'  surgeon's   saline   draughts  and  quinine  mixtures 

They  talked  a  great  deal  of  John  Marchmont. :  had  subdued  the  fiery  light  in  her  fcyes,  or  cooled 
It  was  such  a  happiness  to  Mary  to  be  able  to  ;  the  raging  fever  that  devoured  her.  She  arose  be- 
talk  unreservedly  of  her  father  to  some  one  who  cause  she  could  no  longer  lie  still  in  her  desola- 
had  loved  and  comprehended  him.  ;  tion,  knov/ing  that  for  two  hours  in  each  long  sum- 

'  My  step-mama  was  very  good  to  poor  papa, ;  mer'sday  Edward  Arundel  and  Mary  Marchmont 
you  know,  Edward,' she  said;  '  and  of  course  he  ;  could  be  happy  together  in  spite  of  her.  She 
was  very  grateful  to  her;  but  I  don't  think  he  ;  came  down  stairs,  therefore,  and  renewed  her 
ever  loved  her  quite  as  he  loved  you.  You  were  watch,  chaining  her  step-daughter  to  her  side,  and 
the  friend  of  his  poverty,  Edward;  he  never  for-  'interposing  herself  forever  between  the  lovers, 
■got  that.'  '"''  /     The  ^dow  arose  from  her  sick-bed  an  altered 

Once,  as  they  strolled  side  hy  side  together ;  woman,  as  it  appeared  to  all  who  knew  her.  A 
upon  the  terrace  in  the  warm  summer  noontide,  [  njad  excitement  seemed  to  have  taken  sudden 
Mary  Marchmont  put  her  little  hand  through  her  ;  possession  of  her.  _Shc  flung  off  her  mourning 
lover's  arm,  and  looked  up  shyly  in  his  face.  ;  garments,  and  ordered  silks  and  laces,  velvets  and 
'  Did  papa  say  that,  Edward  i'  she  whispered; ;  satins  from  a  London  milliiier;  she  complained  of 
'  did  he  really  say  that?'  /the  absence  of  society,  the  monotonous  dullness 

'  Did  he  really  say  what,  darling?'  ;!  of  her  Lincolnshire    l!fe;  and,  to  the  surprise  of 

'  That  he  left  me  to  you  as  a  legacy?'  '  every  one,  sent  out  cards  of  invitation  for  a  ball 

'He  did  indeed  Polly,'  answered  the  young 'at  the  Towers  in  honor  of  Edward  Arundel's  re- 
man; '  I'll  bring  you  the  letter  to-morrow.'  ;  turn  to  England.  She  seemed  to  be  seized  with  a 
And  the  next  day  he  showed  Mary  Marchmont ;  desire  to  do  something,  she  scarcely  cared  what, 
the  yellow  sheet  of  letter-paper  and  the  faded ,- to  disturb  the  even  current  of  her  days, 
writing,  which  had  once  been  black  and  wet  un- /  During  the  brief  interval  befiireen  Mrs.  March- 
der  her  dead  father's  hand.  Mary  looked  through  fmont's  leaving  her  room  and  the  evening  appointed 
her  tears  at  the  old  familiar  Oakley  Street  ad- ;  for  the  ball,  Edward  Arundel  found  no  very  con- 
dress,  and  the  date  of  the  very  day  upon  which  ',  venient  opportunity'  of  informing  his  cousin  of 
Edward  Art^ndel  had  breakfasted  in  the  shabby;  the  engagement  entered  into  betv/een  himself  and 
lodging.  Yes;  there  were  the  words:  '  The  i  Prlary.  "He  had  no  wish  to  hurry  this  disclosure; 
legacy  of*a  child's  helplessness  is  the  only  be- ;  for  tiiere  was  something  in  the  orphan  girl's  child- 
quest  I  can  leave  to  the  only  friend  I  have.'  '  ishness  and  innocence  that  kept  all  definite  ideas 
'And  you  shall  never  know  what  it  is  to  be  /  ofan  early  marriage  very  far  away  from  her  lover's 
helpless  while  1  am  near  you,  Polly  darling,'  the;  mind.  He  wanted  to  go  back  to  India  and  win  more 
soldier  said,  as  he  refolded  his  dead  friend's  epis- 1  laurels,  to  lay  at  the  feet  of  the  mistress  of  March- 
lie.  '  You  may  defy  your  enemies  henceforward,  fmont  Towers.  He  wanted  to  make  a  name  for 
Mary,  if  you  have  any  enemies.  Oh,  by-the-by,  /  himself,  which  should  cause  the  world  to  forget 
you  have  never  heard  anything  of  that  Paul ;  that  he  Avas  a  younger  son — a  name  that  tlija  vil- 
Marchmont,  I  suppose?'  ;  est  tongue  would  never  dare  to  blacken  with  the 
'  Papa's  cousin,  Mr.  Marchmont  the  artist?'      /  epithet  of  fortune-hunter. 

'Yes.'  ■  <     The  young  man   was  silent  therefore,  waiting 

'  He  came  to  the  reading  of  papa's  will.'  J  for  a   fitting  opportunity  in   which  to   speak  to 

•Indeed!  and  did  you  see  much  of  him?'  ;  Mary's  step-mother.      Perhaps  he  rather  dreaded 

'  Oh,  no,  very  little.     I  was  ill,  you  know,' the   the  idea  of  discussing  his  attachment  witff  Olivia; 

girl  added,  the  tears  rising  to  her  eyes  at  the  re-;  for   she  had  looked  at  him  with  cold  angry  eyes, 

collection  of  that  bitter  time.     '  I  was  ill,  and  I '  and  a  brow  as  blacTc  as  thunder,  upon  those  occa- 

didn  't  notice  any  thing.     1  know  that  Mr.  March- !  sions  on  which  she  had  sounded  him  as  to  his  feel- 

mdnt  talked  to  me  a  little;  but  I  can't  remember !  ings  for  Mary.  • 

whafhesaid.'  ;      'She  wants  poor  Polly  to  marry  some  grandee, 

'And  he  has  never  been  here  since  ?'  ;  I  dare  say,'  he  thought;  'and  will  do  all  she  can 

'Never.'  ',  to  oppose  my  suit.     But  her  trust  will  cease  with 

Edward  Arundel  shrugged  his  shoulders.     This  )  Mary's  majority;  and  I  don't  want  my  confiding 

Paul  Marchmont  could  not  be  such  a  designing  j  little  darling  to  marry  me  until  she  is  old  enough 

villain,  after  all,  or  surely  he  v.rould  have  tried  to    to  choose  for  herself,  and  to  choose  wisely.     She 

push  his  acquaintance  with  his  rich  cousin.  }  will^beone-and-twenty  in  three  years;  and  what  are 

'I  dare  say  John's  suspicion  of  him  was  only  f  three  years?      I  would  wait  as  long  as  Jacob  for 

one  of  the   poor    fellow's   morbid   fancies,'  Ije    my  pet,  and  serve  my  fourteen  years' apprentice- 

.thought.      'He  was  always  fulf  of  morbid  fan-   ship  under  Sir  Charles  Napier,  and  be  true  to  her 

cies.'  'all  the  time.' 

-  Mrs.  Marchmont's  rooms  were  in  the  western 

front  of  the  house;  and  through  her  open  windows  Olivia  Marchmont  hated  her  step-daughter. — 
she  heard  the  fresh  young  voices  of  the  lovers,  as  Mary  was  not  slow  to  perceivd  the  change  in  the 
they  strolled  up  and  down  the  terrace.  The  cav- 1  widow's  manner  toward  her.  It  had  always  been 
airy  oflicet;  was  content  to  carry  a  watering-pot  |  cold,  and  sometimes  severe;  but  it  was  now  al- 
fuU  of  water  for  the  refreshment  of  his  young  most  abhorrent.  The  girl  shrank  appalled  from 
•mistress's  geraniums  in  the  stone  vases  on  the  the  sinister  light  in  her  step-mother's  gray  eyes,  • 
balustrade,  and  to  do  other  under-gardener's  work  las  they  followed  her  unceasingly,  dogging  her 


JOHN  MARCHMONT'S  LEGACY. 


footsteps  with  a  hungry  and  evil  gaze.  The  gen-< 
tie  girl  wondered  what  she  had  done  to  olfend  her  ■ 
guardian,  aiid  then,  being  unable  to  think  of  any  ■ 
possible  delinquency  by  which  she  might  have  in- ' 
curred  Mrs.  Marchmont's  displeasure,  was  fain' 
to  attribute  the  change  in  Olivia's  manner  to  the  • 
irritation  consequent  upon  her  illness,  and  was  ' 
thus  more  gentle  and  more  submissive  than  of  old ;  ' 
enduring  cruel  looks,  rdturning  no  answer  to  bit- ,' 
terspoeches,  but  striving  to  conciliate  thesupposed 
invalid  by  her  sweetness  and  obedience.  ' 

But  the  girl's  amiability  only  irritated  the  de- 
spairing woman.  Her  jealousy  fed  upon  every  ■ 
charm  of  the  rival  who  had  supplanted  her.  That 
fatal  passion  fed  upon  Edward  Arundel's  every 
look  and  tone,  upon  the  quiet  smile  which  rested 
on  Mary's  face  as  the  girl  sat  over  her  embroid- 
ery, in  meek  silence  thinking  of  her  lover.  The 
self-tortures  which  Olivia  Marchmont  inflicted 
upon  herself  were  so  horrible  to  bear,  that  she 
turned,  with  a  mad  desire  for  relief,  upon  those 
she  had  the  power  to  torture.  Day  by  day  and 
hour  by  hour  she  contrived  to  distress  the  gentle 
girl,  who  had  so  long  obeyed  her,  now  by  a  word,' 
now  by  a  look,  but  always  with  that  subtle  power 
of  aggravation  which  women  possess  in  such  an 
eminent  degree;  until  Mary  Marchmont'#  life  be- 
came a  burden  to  her — or  would  have  so  become, 
but  for  that  inexpressible  hap'piness,  of  which  her 
tormentor  could  not  deprive  her — the  joy  she  felt 
in  her  knowledge  of  Edward  Arundel's  lofb. 

^he  was  very  careful  to  keep  the  secret  of  her 
stcp-molher's altered  manner  from  tiie  young  sol- 
dier. Olivia  was  his  cousin,  and  he  had  said  long 
ago  that  s!»o  was  to  love  her.  Heaven  knows  she 
had  tried  to  do  so,  and  had  failed  most  miserably; 
but  her  belief  in  Olivia's  goodness  was  still  un- 
shaken. If  Mrs.  Maithmont  was  now  irritable, 
capricious,  and  even  cruel,  there  was  doubtless 
some  good  reason  for  the  alteration  in' her  con-, 
duct,  and  it  was  Mary's  duty  to  be  patient.  The 
orphan  girl  had  learned  to  suffer  quietly  when  the 
great  allliction  of  her  father's  death  had  fallen 
upon  her:  and  she  sutlered  so  quietly  now,  that 
"even  her  lover  failed  to  perceive  any  symptoms  of 
her  distress.  How  could  she  grieve  him  by  telling 
him  .of  her  sorrows,  wjien  his  very  presence 
brought  such  unutterable  joy  to  her  ? 

So,  on  the  morning  of  the  bail  ;;t  Marchmont 
Towers — the  first  eniertninment  of  the  kind  tiiat 
had  been  given  in  that  grim  Lincolnshire  mansion 
since  young  Arthur  Marchmont's  untimely  death 
— Mary  sat  in  her  room,  with  h'er  old  frifud  Far- 
mer Pollard's  daughter — who  was'now  Mrs.  Ma- 
pleson,  the  wife  of  the  most  prosperous  carpenter  ' 
in  Kemberling.  Hester  had  come  up  to  the  Tow- 
ers to  pay  a  dutiful  visit  to  her  young  patroness; , 
and  upon  this  particular  occasion  Olivia  had  not 
cared  to  prevent  Mary  and  her  humble  friend 
spending  half  an  hour  together.  Mrs.  March- 
mont roamed  from  room  to  room  upon  this  <l:iy. 
with  a  perpetual  restlessness.  I-^lward  Arundel 
was  to  dine  at  the  Towers,  and  was  to  sleep  there 
after  the  ball.  He  was  to  drive  his  uncle  over 
from  Swampingloii,  as  Ihe  Rector  had  promised 
to  show  himself  for  an  hour  or  two  at  his  daugh- 
ter's entertainment.  M:iry  had  met  her  step- 
mother several  limes  that  morning  in  the  corridors 
and  on  the  staircase;  but  the  widow  had  passed 
her  in  silence,  with  a  dark  facr^  and  a  shivering, 
almost  abhorrent  gesture. 

The  bright  July  day  dragged  itself  out  at  last, 
with  hideou?  slowness  for  the  desperate  woman, 
who  conM  riot  find  peaco  or  rest  in  all  those  splen- 


did rooms,  on  pU  that  grassy  flat,  dry  and  burning, 
under  Ihe  blazing  summer sihi.  She  had  wandered 
out  upon  the  waste  of  barren  turf,  with  her  head 
bared  to  the  hot  sky,  and  had  loitered  here  and 
there  by  the  still  pools,  looking  gloomily  at  the 
black  tideless  water,  and  wondering  what  the 
agony  of  drov.-ning  was  like.  Not  that  she  had 
any  thought  of  killing  herself.  No;  the  idea  of 
death  was  horrible  to  her;  for  after  her  death  Ed- 
ward and  Mary  would  be  happy.  Could  she  ever 
find  rest  in  the  grave  knowing  this  ?  Could  there 
be  any  possible  extinction  that  would  blot  outlier 
jealous  fury  .'  Surely  the  fire  of  her  hate — it  was 
no  longer  love,  but  hate,  that  raged  in  her  heart 
— would  defy  annihilation,  eternal  by  reason  of 
its  intensity.  When  the  dinner-hour  came,  and 
Edward  and  his  uncle  arrived  at  the  Towet^, 
Olivia  Marchmont's  pale  face  was  lit  up  yitXh 
eyes  that  flamed  like  fire;  but  she  took  Ifer  actJBs- 
tomed  place  very  quietly,  with  hei' father  opposite 
to  her,  and  Mary  and  Edward  upon  either  side. 

'I'm  sure  you're  ill,  Livy,'  the  young  man  said; 
'you're  as  pale  as  death,  and  your  hand  is  dry 
and  burniilg.  I'm  afraid  you've  not  been^obedi- 
ent  to  the  Swampington  doctor.' 

Mrs.  Marchmont  shrugged  her  shoulders  with  a 
short  contemptuous  laugh. 

,'I  am  well  enough,'  she  said.  'Who  cares  whe- 
ther I  am  well  or  ill  ?' 

Her  father  looked  up  at  her  in  mute  surprise. 
The  bitterness  of  her  tone  startled  and  alarmed 
him;  but  Mary  never  lifted  her  eyes.  It  was  in 
such  a  tone  as  this  that  her  step-mother  had  spo- 
ken constantly  of  late. 

But  two  or  three  hours  afterward,  when  |hc 
flats  before  tlje  house  were  silvered  by  the  moon- 
light, and  the  long  ranges  of  windows  glittered 
with  the  lamps  within,  Mrs.  Marchmont  emerged 
from  her  dressing-room  another  creature,  as  it 
seemed. 

Edward  and  his  uncle  were  walking  up  and  down 
the  great  oaken  banqueting-hall,  which  had  been 
decorated  and  fitted  up  as  a  ball-room  for  the  oc- 
casion, when  Olivia  crossed  the  wide  threshold  of 
the  chamber.,  The  young  officer  looked  up  with 
an  involuntary  expression  of  surprise.  In  all  his 
acquaintance  wilh  his  cousin  he  had  never  seen 
her  look  thus.  The  gloomy,  black-robed  woman 
was  transformed  into  a  Semiramis.  She  wore  a 
voluminous  dress  of  a  deep  claret-colored  velvet, 
that  glowed  with  the  warm  hues  of  rich  wine  in 
the  lamplight.  Her  massive  hair  was  coiled  in  a 
knot  at  the  back  of  her  head,  and  diamonds  glit- 
tered amidst  the  thick  bands  that  framed  her 
broad  white  brow.  Her  stern  classical  beauty 
was  lit  up  by  the  unwonted  splendor  of  her  dress, 
and  asserted  itself  as  obviously,  as  if  she  had  said, 
'Am  I  a  wotnan  to  be  despised  for  the  love  of  a 
pale-faced  child?* 

Mary  Marchmont  came  into  the  room  a  few 
minutes  after  her  step-mother.  Her  lover  ran  to 
welcome  her,  and  looked  fondly  at  her  simple 
dress  of  shadowy  white  crape,  and  the  pearl  cir- 
clet that  crowned  her  soft  brown  hair.  The  pearls 
she  wore  upon  this  night  had  been  given  to  ricrby 
her  father  on  her  fourteenth  birthday. 

Olivia  watched  tli%young  man  as  he  bent  oyer 
Mary  Marchmont. 

He  wore  his  uniform  to-night  for  the  special 
gratification  pf  his  young  mistress,  and  he  was 
looking  down  wilh  a  tender  sinih^  at  her  childish 
admiration  of  the  bullion  ornain;iils  upon  his  coit, 
and  the  decoration  he  had  won  in  India. 
;     The  widow  looked  from  iho  two  Jovers  to  aQ 


66  JOHN  MARCHMONT'S  LEGACY. 

antique  glass  upon  an  ebony  bureau  in  aniche  op-  Jyou  so  prettjf,  my  darling,'  he  said,  as  he  stood 
posite  to  her,  which  j-eflected  her  own  face — her  <  with  Mary  in  the  embrasure  of  the  window, 
own  face,  more  beautiful  than  she  had  ever  seen  y  You  look  like  Titania,  the  queen  of  the  fairies, 
it  before,  with  a  feverish  glow  of  vivid  crimson  j  Polly,  with  your  cloudy  draperies  and  crown  pf 
lighting  up  her  hollow  cheeks.  i  pearls.' 

'I  might  have  been  beautiful  if  he  had  loved  <  The  window  was  open,  and  Captain  Arundel 
me, 'she  ihoughtjand  then  she  turned  to  her  father,  ^  looked  wistfully  at  the  broad  flagged  quadrangle, 
and  began  to  talk  to  him  of  his  parishioners,  the  <  beautified  by  the  light  of  the  full  summer  moon. 
old  pensioners  upon  her  bounty,  whose  little  his- ^  He  glanced  back  into  the  room;  it  was  nearly 
tories  were  so  hatefully  familiar  to  her.  Once  j  empty  now;  and  Mrs.  Marchmont  was  standing 
more  she  made  a  feeble  effort  to  tread  the  old ;;  near  the  principal  doorway,  bidding  the  last  of 
hackneyed  pathway;  which   she  had  toijed  upon;! her  guests  good-night. 

with  such  weary  feet;  but  she  could  not — she^  'Come  into  the  quadrangle,  Polly,'  he  said, 
could  not.  After  a  few  minutes  she  turned  away;;'  and  take  a  turn  with  me  under  the  colonnade, 
abruptly  from  her  father,  and  seated  herself  in  ^  ;;  It  was  a  cloister  once,  1  dare  say,  in  the  good  old 
recess  of  the  window,  from  which  she  could  see ;;  days,  before  Harry  the  Eighth  was  king;  and 
Edward  and  Mary.         '  ^  cowled  monks  have  paced  up  and  down  under  its 

But  Mrs.  Marchmont's  duties  as  hostess  soon  j  shadow,  muttering  mechanical  prayers,  as  the 
demandftd  her  attention.  The  county  families  be-' beads  of  their  rosaries  dropped  slowly  through 
gan  to  arrive,  the  sound  of  carriage-wheels  ^  their  shriveled  old  fingers.  Come  out  into  the 
seemed  perpetual  upon  the  crisp  gravel-drive  be- ^cfuadrangle,  Polly;  all  tho^  people  we  know  or 
fore  the  western  front,  the  names'  of  half  the  j  care  about  are  gone;  and  we'll  go  out  and  walk 
great  people  in  Lincolnshire  were  shouted  by  the<  in  the  moonlight,  as  true  lovprs  ought.' 
old  servants  in  the  hall.  The  band  in  the  music-  J  The  soldier  led  his  young  companion  across 
gallerv  struck  up  a  quadrille,  and  Edward  Arun-  <  the  threshold  of  the  window,  and  out  into  a 
del  led  the  youthful  mistress  of  the  mansion  to  i  cloister-like  colonnade  that  ran  along  one  side  of 
^r  place  in  the  dance.  i  the  hou^e.     The  shadows  of  the  Gothic  pillars 

To  Olivia  that  long  night  seemed  all  glare  and  <  were  black  upon  the  moonlit  flags  of  the  quadran- 
noise  and  confusion.  She  did  the  honors  of  the  <  i^le,  which  was  as  light  now  as  in  the  day;  but  a 
ball-room,  she  received  her  guests,  she  meted  out  ^  pleasant  obscurity  reigned  in  the  sheltered  cot- 
due  attention  to  all;  for  she  had  been  accustomed  <  onnade. 

from  her  earliest  girlhood  to  the  stereotyped  round  >     <  j  think  this  little  bit  of  pre-Lutheran  masonry 
of  c 
she 
she 

in  all  the  confusion  of  her  thoughts,  two  figures  ^  j^rs^'^rundeT,  I  shail  stVoirup"a7d"'down  herein 
were  always  before  her.  Wherever  Edward  ^  the  still  summer  evenings  smoking  my  cheroots. 
Arundel  and  Mafy  Marchmont  went  her  eyes  fol-^  you  will  let  me  smoke  out  of  doors,  won'f  you, 
lowed  them,  her  fevered  imagmation  pursued '^  poUy ;  But  suppose  I  should  leave  some  of  my 
them.  Once,  and  once  only,  m  the  course  of  that^  Um^g  q^  the  banks  of  the  Sutlej,  and  come  limp- 
long  night,  she  spoke  to  her  step-daughter.  ^  jng  ho^g  to  you  with  a  wooden  leg,  would  you 

'  How  often  do  you  mean  to  dance  with  Cap- ^  have  me  then,  Mary;  or  would  you  dismiss  me 
tain  Arundel,  Miss  Marchmont?' she  said.  ^  with   ignominy   from  your  sweet   presence,  and 

But  before  Marycould  answer,  her  step-mother^  shut  the  doors  of  your  stony  mansion  upon  my- 
had  moved  away  upon  tlie  arm  of  k  portly  coun-;  jgjf  ^nd  my  calamities'?  I'm  afraid,  from  your 
try  squire,  and  the  girl  was  left  in  sorrowful ,- admiration  of  my  goljl  epaulets  and  silk  sash, 
wonderment  as  to  the  reason  of  Mrs.  March-^  that  glory  in  the  abstract  would  have  very  little 
mont's  angry  tone.  ^attraction  for  you.' 

Edward  and  Mary  were  standing  in  one  of  nhe  ,  Marchmont  looked  up  at  her  lover  with 

deep  embayed  windows  of  the  banqueting-hal  {  wondering    eyes,    and    the 

when  the  dancers  began  to  disperse,  Jong  after  >    ,       -^  i- '.       .      j  *•  u.        i      i-m  u- 

Clipper     Th.  cirl  hnApp.n  verv  h.nnv  t.h^ft  even- ^  ^^'^sp  of  her  hand  tigjjtened  a  little  upon  his  arm. 


Towers  had  felt  the  contagious  influence  of  other  i  little  because  you  were  handsome,  and  different 
people's  happiness.  The  brillianti^lighted  ball-  to  every  one  else  I  had  ever  seen.  You  were  so 
room,  the  splendid  dresses  of  the  dancers,  the  very  handsome,  you  know,' she  added,  apologeti- 
iovous  music,  the  low  sound  of  suppressed  laugh-  cally; '  but  it  was  not  because  of  that  only  that  I 
iter,  the  bright  faces  which  smiled  at  each  other  ( loved  you;  I  loved  you  because  papa  told  me  you 
upon  every  side,  were  as  new  as  anything  in  fairy-  ^ere  good  and  generous,  and  his  true  friend  when 
land  to  this  girl,  whose  narrow 'life  had  been  i  he  was  in  cruel  need  of  a  friend.  Yes,  you  were 
overshadowed  by  the  gloomy  figure  of  her  ?tep- <  his  friend  at  school,  when  your  cousin,  Martin 
moth%"V  forever  interposed  between  her  and  the  Mostyn,  and  the  other  pupils  sneered  at  him  and 
outer  world,  the  vojing  spirit  arose  and  shook  '  ridiculed  him.  How  can  I  ever  forget  that,  Ed- 
ctr  its  fetters,  fresh"  and  radiant  as  the  butterfly  \  ward?  How  can  I  ever  love  you  enough  to  re- 
that  escapes  from  its  chrysalis-shell.  The  new  }  pay  you  for  that?'  In  the  enthusiasm  of  her  in- 
Ijo-ht  of  happiness  illumined  the  orphan's  dtaioale  ;  nocent  devotion  she  lifted  her  pure  young  brow, 
face  until  Edward  Arundel  began  to  wonder  at )  and  the  soldier  bent  down  and  kissed  that  white 
her  loveliness,  as  he  had  wondered  once  before  •;  throne  of  all  virginal  thoughts,  as  the  lovers 
that  nio-ht  at  the  fiery  splendor  of  his  cousin  j  st,ood  side  by  side,  half  in  the  moonlight,  half  in 
Olivia.  '^  )  the  shadow. 

*  I  had  DO  idea  that  Olivia  was  so  handsome,  or  i     Olivia  Marchmont  came  into  the  embrasure  of 


JOHN  MARCHMONT'S  LEGACY. 


SS 


'Ihe  open  window,  and  took  her  place  there  to 
watch  them. 

She  came  again  to  the  torture.  From  the  re- 
motest eiid  oC  the  long  banquetinf^-ioom  she  liad 
seen  the  two  figures  glide  out  into  the  moonlight. 
She  had  seen  them,  and  had  gone  on  with  her 
courteous  speeches,  and  iiad  repeatetj  her  for- 
mula of  hospitality,  with  the  fire  in  her  heart  de- 
vouring and  consuming  lier.  She  came  again,  to 
watch  and  lo  listen,  and  to  endure  her  self-im- 
posed agonies;  as  mad  and  foolish  in  her  ftdal 
])assion  as  some  besotted  wretch  who  should  come 
willingly  to  the  wheel  upon  which  his  limbs  had 
been  well-nigh  broken,  and  supplicate  for  a  re- 
newal of  the  torture.  She  stood  rigid  and  mo- 
tionless in  tlie  shadow  of  the  arched  window, 
hiding  herself,  as  she  had  hidden  in  the  dark 
cavernous  retess  by  the  river:  she  stood  and 
listened  to  all  the  childish  hab*)le  of  the  lovers  as 
they  loitered  up  and  dawM  the  vatiltcd  cloister. 
How  she  despised  them  in  the  haughty  superi- 
ority of  an  intellect  xfhich  mieht  have  planned  a 
revolution  Or  saved  a  sinking  state  !  What  bitter 
scorn  curJL-d  her  lip  as  their  foolish  talk  f>'ll  upon 
her  ear!  Tiiey  talked  like  Klori/.el  and  IVrdila, 
like  Romeo  and  Juliet,  like  Paul  and  \'iiginia, 
and  they  talked  a  great  deal  of  nonsense,  no 
doubt;  soft,  harmonious  fooli'<hness,  with  little 
more  meaning  in  it  than  there  is  in  the  cooing  of 
doves,  but  tender  and  musical,  and  more  than 
beautiful,  to  each  other's  ears.  A  tigress,  fam- 
ished and  ilc-iolate,  and  but  lately  robbed  of  her 
whelps,  would  net  be  likely  to  listen  very  pa- 
tiently Jo  the  communing  of  a  pair  of  prosperous 
ring-doves.  Olivia  Marchmont  lislenca  with  her 
brain  on  fire,  and  the  spirit  of  a  murderess  raging 
if)  her  breast.  What  was  she  that  she  should  be 
patient?  All  the  worlj  was  lost  to  her.  She  was 
thirty  years  of  age,  and  she  had  never  yet  won 
the  love  of  any  human  beiig.  She  was  thirty 
years  of  age,  and  ali  the  sublime  world  of  affec- 
tion was  a  dismal  blank  for  her.  From  the  outer 
darkness  in  which  she  stood  she  lookcii  w  ith  wild 
and  ignorant  yearning  into  that  bright  region 
which  her  accursed  foot  had  never  trodden,  a'  d 
saw  Alary  Marchmont  wandering  hand  in  hand 
with  the  only  man  siie  could  have  loved,  the  only 
creature  who  had  ever  had  the  power  to  awake 
the  instinct  of  womanhood  in  her  soul. 

She  stood  and  waited  until  the  clock  in  the 
quadrangle  struck  the  fir:?t  quarter  al'ter  three  : 
the  moon  was  fading  out,  and  the  colder  light  of 
early  morning  glimmered  in  the  eastern  sky. 

'  1  mustn't  keep  you  out  here  any  longer,  Polly,' 
Captain  Arundel  said,  pausing  near  the  window. 
'  it's  getting  rold,  my  dear,  and  it's  high  time 
the  mi'<lres-^  of  Marchmont  should  retire  lo  he:- 
Stony  bower,  (rood-night,  and  God  bless  you. 
my  darling  I  I'll  stop  in  the  qurulrangle  »nd 
smoke  a  cheroot  before  I  go  to  my  room.  Your 
step-mamma  will  be  wondering  what  has  becontc 
of  you,  Mary,  and  we  shall  have  a  le<  tore  upon 
the  proprieties  to-morrow;  so,  once  more,  good- 
night.' 

He  kissed  the  fair  young  brow  un<1er  the  coro- 
nal.of  pearls,  s'opprd  tn  watch  Marj  while  she 
cro'scd  the'lhieshold  of  the  open  window,  and 
then  strolled  away  into  the  flaggcil  court  with  h^i 
cijar-case  in  his  haiiti. 

Olivia  Mnrihmont  stood  a  f«w  fvacr»  from  the 
window  when  htr  stcp-ilanghtcr  entrrfvl  the 
room,  and  Mary  paused  involunlar^,  terrified  by 
the  cruel  aspect  of  the  face  that  frowned  upon 
her  :  terrified  by  soroethinf;  fh»t   she  had  never 


^  seen   before — the  horrible    darkness    that  over- 

•  shadows  the  souls  of  the  lost. 

>.  '  iVtamma  !' the  girl  cried,  clasping  her  hands 
;  ip  sudden  aft'right,  •  mammal  why  do  you  look  at 
j  me  like  that?  Why  have  ^ou  been  so  changed  to 
:  me  lately?  I  can  not  tell  you  how  unhappy  I 
have  been.  Mamma,  mamma,  what  have  1  done 
•:  to  offend  you  ?' 

Olivia  Marchmont  grasped  the  trembling  hands 
uplifted  entreatingly  to  her,  and  held  them  in  her 
own^hcid  them  as  if  in  a  vice.  She  stood  thus, 
with  her  step-daughter  jiinioned  in  her  grasp,  and 
her  eyes  fixed  upon  the  girl's  face.  Two  streams 
of  lurid  liglit  seemed  lo  emanate  from  those  di- 
lated gray  eyes:  two  spots  of  crimson  blazed  in 
;  the  widow's  hollow  cheeks. 

'  rr/int  have  you  doner'  shd  cried.  'Do  you 
think  1  Itave  toiled  for  nothing  to  do  the  duty 
which  I  promised  my  dead  husband  to  perform 
for  your  sake?  Has  all  my  care  of  you  beeti.  so 
:  little,  tli«t  J  am  to  stand  by  now  and  be  silent, 
when  I  see  what  you  are?  Uo  you  think  that  T 
am  blind,  or  deaf,  or  besotted,  that  you  defy  me 
and  outrage  uie,  day  by  day,  and  hour  by  hour, 
■  by  your  conduct  ?' 

'  Mamma,  mamma,  what  do  you  mean  ?' 
'  Heaven    knows  how   rigidly   you   have  beon 
educated:  how  carefully  you  have  been  secluded 
from  all  society,  and  sheltered  from  every  indu- 
;  ence,  lest  harm  or  danger  should  come  tS  you.     I 
;  haVe  done  my  duty,  ynd  1  wash  my  hands  of  you.* 
■The  debasing  taint  of  your  inotlicr's  low  breed- 
;  ing  reveals  itself  in  your  every  action.     You  run 
after  my  cousin   Edward  Arundel,  and  advertise 
your  admiration  of  him    to  himself,  and  every 
crpalure  who  knows  you.     Y'ou  fling  yourself  into 
his  arms,  and  offer  him  yourself  and  your  for- 
tune: and  in  your  low  cunning  try  lo  keep  the  se- 
cret from  me,  your  protectress  and  guardian,  ap- 
;  pointed  by  the  dead  father  whom  you  pretend  to 
liave  loved  so  dearly.' 

Olivia   Marchmont  still  held  her  step-daugh- 
ter's wristi  in  her  iron  grasp.     The  giil  stared 
Jvr'ildiyat   her  witli   iier  eyes  distended,  her  trem- 
bling  lips   apart.     She   began   to   think  that  thu 
widow  had  gone  mad. 

'  1  blush  for  you,  I  am  ashamed  of  you,'  cried 
Olivia.  It  seemed  as  if  the  torrent  of  her  word4 
hur.>t  forth  almost  in  spite  of  herself.  There  is 
nat  a  village-girl  in  Kemberling,  there  is  not  a 
scullory-maid  in  this  house,  who  would  havj  be- 
haved as  you  have  done.  I  have  watched  you» 
'  Mary  Marchmont,  remember,  and  I  know  all.  I 
know  your  wanderings  down  by  the  liver-side.  I 
heard  you.  Y'^es,  by  the  Heaven  above  me,  1 
heard  you  ofier  yourself  to  my  cousin.' 

Marv  drew  h<iself  up  with  an  indignant  gos- 
tme,  and  ov«  r  the  whiteness  of  her  face  there 
swept  a  sudden  glow  of  vivid  crimson,  that  faded 
a"i  quickly  as  it  came.  Her  submissive  nature  re- 
volted acainsl  her  step-mother's  horrible  tyr- 
;iniiy.  The  dignity  of  innocence  arose  and  as- 
"ert^d^iself  against  ()livi;i 's  .'■liamefuj  upbraiding. 
'  If  1  ollered  myself  to  Edward  Arundel, 
mamma,'  she  s^iid,  '  it  was  because  we  love  each 
other  very  Irnly,  and  because  I  think  and  believe 
.papa  wisliod  lae  lo  many  his  oU  friend.' 

'  Recau^e    xce    love    ench    other    very   truly!' 
Olivia  orhoed,  in  a  tone  of  unmitigated  scorn. 

*  T'li  rn.i  answer  for  Captain  Arundel's  hrart,  I 
suinjcse,  then,  as  well  as  for  your  own?  Ycu 
must  have  a  tolerably  good  opinion  of  jourelf, 
Miss  Marchmont,  to  be  able  to  Tcnture  no  much. 

Dab  !'  «he  criod,  iuddmly,  with  a  fliidajnfal  ^e^-      ^^ 


z>S 


JOHN'  MARCHMONT'S  LEGACY. 


ture  of  her  head;  '  do  you  think  your  pitiful  face    in  a  low'dirftamy  lonb,  looking,  not  at  her  step*' 
has  won  Edward  Aruodel.'    Do  you  think  he  ha«   mothcf,  b-.it  straight  before  her  into  vacancy,  a^" 
not  had  women  fifty  times  your  superior,  in  c-yery    if  her  tonrf<?s!!-eY('s''wei'o.  trarsffised  hv  the  Tisif ' 
quality  of  oiind  and  bodv,  at  his  ft-ei.  out  yonder   of  alt  her  shatterfd  hopes,  tillinc;  with  M'reckai: 
in  India?     Are  you  idiotic  snd  besotted  cnouf^h    ruin  the' desolate  fore-groiind  of  a  blank  future, 
to  believe  that  it  i?  anything  but  your  fortune  this    '  1  dare  say  you  are.  rrght.  mamma;  it  was  very 
man   cares  for.'     Do  you   know  the   viJe   things   foolish  of  me  to  think  that  PJd.ward— that  Captain 
people  v,ill  do,  the  lies  they  M'ill  tell,  the  base 'Arundel  could  care  for  me,  for— for — my  own' 
comedies  of  guilt  and  falsehood  they  v/ill  act,  for;  sake;  but  if — if  he  watits  nly  fortune,  I  should 
the  lore  of  eleven  thousand  a  year.?     And  yoU' wish  hini  to  have' it.    Thie  money  will  T-.e-ver  be 
think  that  he  loves  you!     Child,  dupe,  foot,  are'  any  good  to  me,  you  know,  mamma:  and  be  was 
you  weak   enough  to    be  deluded  by  a  fortune-    so  kind  to  papa  \n  his  poverty — so  kind;     I  w;!' 
hunter's  pretty  pastoral  flatteries.'  Are  you  weak;!  never,  never  believe  anything  agair.-st  lim;  but 
enough  to  be  duped  by  a  man  of  the  world,  -worn  -.couldn't  e:tpect  him  to  love.  n>e.  T  kliou'dn't  hav 
outand  jaded,  no  doubt,  as  to  the  world's  pleas- sOiTei*ed  to   be   his  wife.  ;  ii!y  to  have 

ures;.  in  debt, ^jerhaps,  and  in  pressing  need  of  <  ofi'fered  him  my  fortune.' 

money;  who  comes  here  to  try  and  redeem  his;      She  heard  "her  lover's  icois-ep  in  the   quad-, 
fortunes   by  a   marriage   with   a    »emi-imbecile  j.rangle  without,  in  the  stillness  of 'the  suramcr  ' 
heiress.''  .  ;!  morning,  and  shiverted  at  the  sound.     It  was  le^s 

Olivia   Marchmont  released  her  hold   of  the  <  than  a  quarter  of  ati  hour  since  she  had  been 
shrinking  girl,  who  seemed  to  have  become  trans- >  walking  with  Mm  up  and  dolvnthe  cl6istere\i    . 
fixed  to  the  spot  upon  which  she  stood,  a  pale>  way,  in  which  his  footst/ips  -were  echoing  with  a' 
statue  of  horror  and  despair.  ;;  hollow  sound;  and  now-—     Even  in  the  confusion 

The  iron  v/ill  of  the  strong  and  resolute  wo-;;  of  her  anguish  Mary  Marchmont  could  not  help^ 
man  rod*  rough-shod  over  the  simple  confidence  <  wondering,  as  she  "thought  in  how  short  a  time   ' 
of  the  ignorant   girl.    Until  this  moment  Mary  ;;  the  happiness  of  a  future  might  be  swept  away 
Marchmont  had  beliered  in  i'ldward  Arundel  as  ^  into  chaos. 

implicitly  as  she  had  trusted  in  her  dead  father. '.  '  Good-nighty  mRmma',''she  said  presently,  •w'ith 
But  now,  for  the  first  time,  a  -dreadful  region  of  J  an  accent  of  weariness.  She  did  not  look  at  hur 
^oubt  opened  before  her;  the  foundations  of  her;  step-mother,  who  had  turned  away  from  her  now, 
■VTorid  reeled  beneath  her  feet.  Edward  Arundel  ^  and  had  walked  toward  the  open  v.'indow.but 
a  fortune-hunter  !  This  woman,  whom  she  had  ;!  stole  quietly  from  the  room,  crossed  the  hall,  and 
obeyed  for  five  weary  years,  and  who  had  ac- ^  went  up  the  broad  staircase  to  her  own  lonely 
quired  that  ascendancy  ovei'  her  which  a  deter- ^^  chamber.  Heiress  though  she  was,  she  bad  no 
mined  and  vigorous  nature  must  always  exercise  ;!  special  attendarit  of  her  "own;  she  had  the  priri- 
over  a  morbidly  sensitive  disposition,  told  her  ^  lege. of  summoning  Olivia's  maid  whenever  she 
that  she  had  been  dgluded.  This  woman  laughed  ^  had  need  of  assistance;  but  she  retained  the  sim-' 
aloud  in  bitter  scorn  of  her  credulity.  '  This"  wo-  ^  pie  habits  of  her  early  life,  r.nd  very  rarely  trou- 
man,  who  could  have  no  possible  motive  for  tor- 5  bled  Mrs.  MarcKm.ont's  grim  and  elderly  Abigail, 
turing  her,  and  who  was  known  to  be  scrupu->  Olivia  stood  lookinfl:  out  into  the  stony  qiiad- 
lousjy  conscientious  in  all  her  dealings,  told  her,  >  rangle;  it  was  broad  daylight  now;  the  coclrs 
as  plainly  as  tlie  most  cruel  words  could  tell  a  ^  were  crowing  in  the  distance,  and  a  sky-lark 
cruel  truth,  that  her  own  charms  could  not  hare  > singing  somewhere  in  the  blue  heaven,  high  up 
won  Edward  Arundel's  affection.  '        ^above^Marchmont  , Towers. .  The  faded  garlands 

All  the  beautiful  day-dreams  of  her  life  melted  ]  in  the  banquelirg-room  looked  wan  in  the  morn- 
away  from  her.  She  bad  never  questioned  her- J  ing  sunshine;  the  lamps  were  burning  still,  for 
self  as  to  her  worthiness  of  her  lover's  devotion.  '^  the  servants  waited  rinlil  Mrs.  .Marchmont should 
She  had  accepted  it  as  she  accepted  the  sunshine  ^have  rclirrd  before  they  entered  the  room.  Ed- 
and  the  starlight,  as  something  beautifal  and  in- ^  ward  Arundel  was  walking  up  and  down  the 
comprehensible,  that  came  to  her  by  the  benefi- 'cloister,  smoking  his  .second  cigar. • 
cenc§  of  God,  and  not  through  any  merits  of  her  i-  He  stopped  presently^  Seeing  his  cousin  at  the 
own.  But  as  the  fabric  of  her  happiness  dwindled  ;;  window. 


'  What,  Livy,'he  cried,  '  not  gone  to  bed  yet.'' 
'  No;  I  am  going  directly.' 
'  Marj'  has  gone,  I  hope  .'' 
'Yes;  she  has  gone.     Gocd-night-' 
Good-mornirg,  iny  dear  Mrs.  Marchmont, 'the 


happi 
av/ay,  the  fatal   spell  exercised  over  the 
weak  nature  by  Olivia's  violent  words  evoked  a  ;■ 
hundred  doubts.     How  should  he  love  her?  why' 
should  he  love  her  in  preference  to  every  olheV  j 
woman  in   the  world?     ?et  any  -woman  to  ask  j 

herself  this  question,  and  you  fill  her  m.ind  v/ith  a  j  young  man  answered,  laughing.  *If  the  par- 
thousand  suspicions,  a  thousand  jealous  doubts  of  tridgcs  were  in  I  "should  be  going  out  shooting 
her  lover,  though  he  were  the  truest  and  noblest  |  this  lovely  moi'nir.g,  instead  of  going  ignomin- 
in  the  universe.  ;  iously  to  "bed,  like'a  wori:-6ut  reveler  who  has 

Olivia  Marchmont  stood  a  few  paces  from  her  (drunk  too  much  sparkling  hock.     I  like  the  still 
step-daughter,  'vvatching   her    while    the    black  j  best,   by-the-bj'— the   .Tohannisberger,   that  poor 
shadow   of  doubt   blotted   every    joy  from    her  (John's   predecessor  'imported  from'  the   Rhir.c. 
heart,  and  ultcr  despair  crept  slowly  into  her  in- !  But  I  suppose  there  is  no  help. for  it,  and  I  mv 
nocent  breast.     The  widow   expected    that  the  !  go  to  bed  in  the  face  of  all  that  eastern'p'lory. 
girl's   gelf-estecm   would   assert  itself;   ih.at  she  )  should   be  mounting  for  a   gallop  6n  tiie  rncc- 
'-.'ould  contradict  and  defy  the  traducer  of  her!  course  jf  j  were  in  Calcutta.     Kut  I'll  go  to  bed]' 
'=   truth;  but  it  was   not  so.     When  Mary  '  Mrs.  Marchmont,  and  humbly  await  }-our  breali*-' 
^er  voice  \yas  low  and   subdued,  her  ;  fa?1-hour.     They're  stacking  (he  new  hay  in  the 
■■"c  as  it  had  been  two  or  three  >  meadows  beyond  the  park.     Don't  you  rmellit?' 
;  had  stood  before Jier  step- ?     Olivia  shrugged  her  shoulders  with  an  iropa- 
peat  some  difficult  "lesson.      |  tient  frown.  .  Good- heavens  !  how  frivolous  and  , 
V        •  e  rifht,  mamma,'  she  said;  \  senseless  this  man's  talk  seemed  to  her !  She  was 


JOHN    MAROHMUNT'S   LEGACY.  59 

plunging  her  soul  into  an  abyss  of  sin  and  ruin';  come  of  my  mad  folly,  after  all;  and  I  may  have 
for  Ills  sake;  and  she  hated  him,  and  rebelled  '  saved  this  girl  from  a  life  of  misery  by  the  wordi 
against  him,  because  he  was  so  little  v/arthy  of -I  have  spoken  to-night.' 

the  sacrifice.  {      Tiie  devils — forever  lying  in  wait  for  this  wo- 

'  Good-morning,' she  said,  abruptly.  '  I'nvtired*  man,  who»e  gloomy  pride  tendered  her  in  some 
to  death.'  '  -     ;  manner  akin  to  theM>selvc!<-:-niay  have  laughed  at 

She  moved  away  and  left  him.  /  her  s$  she  argued  thus  with  herself, 

i'ive  minutes  afterward  he  went  up  the  great  ■  She  lay  down  at  last  lo  sleep,  worn  out  by  the 
oak  staircase  after  her,  whistling  a  serenade  from 'excitement  of  the  long  night,  and  to  dream  hor- 
Fra  Diavolo  as  he  went,  he  was  one  of  those  iribla  drexms.  1  he  servants,  witli  the  exception 
people  to  whom  life  seems  all  holiday.  Younger 'of.  one  who  rose  betimes  to  open  the  great  house, 
son  thougn  he  was,  he  had  nerer  known  any  of  slept  long  after  the  unwonted  festival.  Edward 
the  pitfalls  of  debt  and  difliculty  into  which  the  Arundel  slumbered  as  heavily  as  any  member  of 
junior  members- of  ricli  families  are  »o  apt  to  J  that  wearied  household;  and  thus  it  was  that  there 
plunge  headlong  in  early  youth,  and  from  which '  was  no  one  in  the  Avay  To  see  a  shrinking,  trem- 
they  emerge,  enfeebled  and  crippled,  to  endure  bling  figure  creep  down  the  sunlit  staircase,  and 
an  after-life  cmhiltcrcd  by  all  the  shabby  raise- 'Steal  across  the  threshold  of  the  wide  hall-door. 
ries  which  wait  upon  aristocratic  pauperism.;  There  was  no  one  to  see  Mary  Marchmont's 
Brave,  honorable,  and  simple-minded,  Kdward  :  silent  liight  from  the  gaunt  Lincolnihirc  mansion, 
Arundel  had  fought  the  battle  of  life  like  a  good  '  in  which  she  had  known  so  little  real  happiness. 
soldier,  and  had  carried  a  stainless  shield  where  There  ^'as  no  one  to  comfort  the  sorrow-stricken 
the  fight  was  thickest,  and  victory  hard  to  win. 'girl  in  her  despair  and  desolation  of  spirit.  She 
His  sunshiny  nature  won  him  friends,  ar.d  his  crept  away,  like  some  escaped  prisoner,  in  the 
better  (lualities  kept  them.  Young  men  trusted  early  morning,  from  the  house  which  the  law 
and  re.'-pected  him,  and  old  men,  gray  in  the  ser-   called  her  own. 

vice  of  their  country,  spoke  well  of  him.  His  And  the  hand  of  the  woman  whom  John  March- 
handsome  face  was  a  pleasaiit  decoration  at  any  mont  had  chosen  to  be  his  daughter's  friond  and 
festival;  his  kindly  voice  and  hearty  laugh  at  a  counseler  was  the  hand  which  drove  that  daughter 
dinner-table  were,  as  good  as  the  music  in  the  from  the  shelter  of  her  home.  The  voire  of  her 
gallery  at  the  end  of  a  banqueting-chaniber.  whom  the  weak  father  had  trusted  in,  fearful  to 

He  had  that  freshness  of  spirit  which  is  the  pe-  confide  his  child  into  the  hands  of  God,  but 
culiar  gift  of  some  natures;  a*jd  he  -had  as  yet  blindly  confident  in  his  own  judgment,  was  the- 
never  known  sorrow,  except,  indeed,  such  tender  voice  which  had  uttered  the  lying  words,  whose 
and  compassionate  sympathy  as  b«  had  olten  felt  every  syllable  had  been  as  a  separate  dagger 
for  fiie  calamities  of  others.  '  thrust  in  the  orphan  girl's  lacerated  heart.     It 

.  Olivia  Marchmont  heard  her  cousin's  cheery  ,  was  her  father — her  father  who- had  placed  this 
tenor  voice  as  he  passed  her  chamber.  'How  woman  over  her,  and  had  entailed  upon  her  the 
happy  he  is!'  she  thought..  '  His  very  happiness  j  awful  agony  that  drove  her  out  into  an  unknown 
is  one  insult  the  more  to  me.'  •  j  world,  careless  whither  she  went  in  her  despair. 

The  widow  paced  up  and  down  her  room  in  the  I 
morning  sunshine,  tliinking  of  the  thine:s  she  had  ; 

said   in  the   bantjueting-hall   below,  and  of  her^  = — -♦•♦ ■ 

step-daughter's  v.'iiile  despairing  face.    What  had  J 
she  done.'    What  was  the  extent  of  the  sin  she' 

had  committed?    Olivia  Marchmont  asked  her-  (JHAl'TER  XV. 

self  these  two  ((ueslions;     The  old  habit  of  self-  r-'«    letter 

examination  was  not  qnite  abandoned  yet.     She  a     \ 

sinned,  and  then  set  herself  lo  work  to  try  and  '     It  was  past  twelve  o'clock  when  Edward  Arun- 

iiislify  her  sin.  ■:  del  strolled  into  the  dining-room.    The  windows 

■  (low  should  he  lovelier?' slic  thought.  'What   were  open,  and  the  scent  of  the  mignonnctte  upon 

.icre  in  her  pale,  lunvieaning  face,  that  should   the  terrace  was  blown  in  upon  the  warm  summer 

V.  in  the  love  of  a  man  wjjo  despises  me r'  breeze. 

She  stopped   brlore   a  cheval-glass,  and  sur- :     Mrs.  Marchmont  was  sitting  at  one  end  of  the 
'—•fd  herself  from  I  •■•  '  '-^ '■-<.("■'"■":";  angrily  '  long  tabic,  reading  a  newspaper.     She  looked  up 
.ler  h3fndsomc  i  ibr  her   as  Edward  entered  the  room.     She  i^as  pale,  but 

used    beauty.      ,  -    look-^d    not  much  paler  than  usual.     The  feverish  light 

stainless  marlil  J  at;aiii»l  iiie  rich  ruby  dark-   had  faded  out  of  her  eyes,  and  they  looked  dim 
■s  of  her  velvet  diis-s.'    Siie  had  snatched  tde    and  heavy, 
turimond  ornafii' :i!'.  from  her  head,  and  her  long       'Good-morning,  Livy,'  the  young  man   said, 
black  hair  iLi!  ;i  1  ui  \.<j  bosom  in  thick  waveiess   '  Mary  is  not  up  jct,  I  suppose?' 
tresses.  'J  believe  not. ' 

'  1  am  hand^o;:!!'!  ',  and  cleverer;  and  ;     '  Poor  little  girl !     A  long  rest  will  «lo  her  good 

I  love  hira  bcti  ;,  1  timpi,  than  she   after  tffr  first  ball.     How  pretty  and  fairy-liko 

loves  him,'  Olivii  ,  as  she; she  looked  in  her  White   gauze  dreis,  and  with 

turned   contemptu</  'Is  it  that  circlet  of  pearls  round  her  soft  brown  hair ! 

likely,  then,  tl:    ■  '  'er.  Your  taste,  I  suppose,  Olivia  ?     She  looked  like 

fortune.-     Ar  .M    a  snow-drop  among  sU  the  other  gaudy  fli'wcrs — 

ji.'.ve,  argued  ;  ■  an    the  roses  and  tiger-lilies,  and  peonies  and  dthliai. 

lid  have  iicr  duty  in.  That  eldest  Miss  Hickman  ii  handsome, but  ihe'i 

ning    this  •'    Ht  foUy.'to  terribly  consciotia  of  her  altractioni.    That 

il  do  I  know  u:    ;•..,. I.  i.  nd    little  girl  from  Swampington  with  the  black  rinj- 

me  to  think  hiui  bi  ller  <  1  rr-  lets  is  rather  pretty,  and  Laura  Kilmer  if  a  jolly, 

.1'  ii?  and  how  many  men  sell  Iik  m-   .<>  3  ivi  ilie   dashing  girl;  she  looks  you  full  ia  the  face,  and 

love  of  a  woman's  wealth  !    Tcrhaps  good  may  ■  talks  to  fou  about  hunting  with  ai  muoh  |«ito  as 


CO 


JOHN  MARCHMONT'S  LEGACY. 


an  olJ  whipper-in.  1  don't  thinlc  much  of  Major 
Hawley's  three  tail,  sandy-haired  daughters;  but 
Fred  Hawley's  a  capital  lellow;  it's  a  pity  he's  a 
cirilian.  In  short,  my  dear  Olivia,  take  it  alto- 
gether, I  thiak  your*bali  was  a  Success,  and  I 
hope  you'll  give  us  another  in  the  hunting- 
season.' 

Mrs.  Marchmont  did  not  condescend  to  reply 
to  her  cousin's  meaningless  rattle.  She  sighed 
wearily,  and  began  to  till  the  tea-pot  from  the 
old-fashioned  silver  urn.  Edward  loitered  in  one 
of  the  windows,  whistling  to  a  peacock  that  was 
stalking  .solemnly  backward  and  forward  upon 
the  stone  balustrade. 

/  I  should  like  to  drive  you  and  Mary  down  to 
the  seashore,  Livy,  after  breakfast.  Will  you 
go?' 

Mrs.  Marchmont  shook  her  head. 

•I  am  a  great  deal  too  tired  to  think  of  going 
out  to-day,'  she  said,  ungraciously. 

'And  I  never  felt  fresher  in  my  life,'  th^  young 
man  responded,  laughing;  'last  night's  festivities 
seem  to  havo  revivified  me.  I  wish  INIary  would 
come  down,'- he  added,  with  a  yawn;  'I  could 
give  her  another  lesson  in  billiards,  at  any  rate. 
Poor  little  girl,  I'm  afraid  she'll  never  make  a 
cannon.' 

Captain  Arundel  sat  down  to  his  breakfast,  and 
drank  the  cup  of  tea  poured  out  for  him  by  Olivia. 
Had  she  been  a  sinful  woosan  of  another  type,  she 
would  have  put  arsenic  into  tlie  cup  perhaps,  and 
so  have  made  an  end  of  the  young  officer  and  of 
her  own  folly.  As  it  was,  she  only  sat  by,  with 
her  own  untasted  breakfast  before  her,  and 
watched  him  while  he  ate  a  plateful  of  raised  pie, 
and  drank  his  cup  of  tea,  with  the  health)'  appe- 
tite which  generally  accompanies  youth  and  a 
good  conscience.  He  spr&ng  up  from  the  table 
directly  he  had  finished  his  breakfast,  and  cried 
out,  impatiently, 

'What  can  make  Mary  so  lazy  this  morning.' 
she  is  usually  such  an  early  riser. ' 

Mrs.  Marchmont  rose  as  her  cousin  said  this, 
and  a  vague  feeling  of  uneasiness  took  poasess'ion 
of  her  mind.  She  remembered  the  white  face 
which  had  blanched  beneath  the  angry  glare  of 
her  eyes,  the  blank  look  of  despair  that  had  come 
orer  Mary's  countenance  a  few  hbiirs  before. 

*I  will  go  and  call  her  myself, 'she  said.  'N-no; 
I'll  send  Barbara.'  She  did  not  wait  to  ring  the 
bell,  but  went  into  the  hall  and  called  sharply, 
'Barbara!  Barbara!' 

A  woman  came  out  of  a  passage  leading  to  the 
housekeeper's  room,  in  answer  to  Mrs.  March- 
mont's  dall;  a  woman  of  about  fifty.years  of  age, 
dressed  in  gray  stuff",  and  with  a  grave  inscruta- 
ble face,  a  wooden  countenance  that  gave  no  to- 
ken of  its  owner's  character.  Barbara  Simmons 
might  have  been  the  best  or  the  worst  of  women, 
a  Mrs.  Fry  or  a  Mrs.  Brownrigg,  for  any  evidence 
her  ^ac©  afforded  against  either  hypothesis. 

•I  want  you  to  go  up  stairs,  Barbara,  ^nd  call 
Miss  Marchmont,' Olivia  said.  'Captain  Arun- 
del and  1  have  finished  breakfast.' 

The  woman  obeyed,  and  Mrs.  Marchmont  re- 
turned to  the  dining-room,  M'here  Edward  was 
trying  to  amuse  himself  with  the  Times  of  the  pre- 
vious day. 

Ten  minutes  afterward  Barbara  Simmons  came 
into  the  room  carrying  a  letter  on  a  silver  waiter. 
Had  the  document  been  a  death-warrant,  or  a  tel- 
egraphic announcement  of  the  landing  .of  the 
French  at  Dover,  the  well-trained  servant  would 


have  placed  it  upon  a  salver  before  presenting  it 
to  her  mistress. 

'Miss  Marchmont  is  not  in  her  room,  ma'am,' 
she  said;  "'the  bed  has  not  been  slept  on;  and  I 
•found  this  letter,  addressed  to  Captain  Arundel, 
upon  the  table.' 

Olivia's  face  grew  livid;  a  horrible  dread  rushed 
into  her  mind.  Edward  snatched  the  letter  which 
the  servant  held  toward  him. 

'Mary  not  in  h«r  room!  What,  in  Heaven's 
name,  can  it  mean.^'  he  cried. 

hie  tore  open  the  letter.  The  writing  was  not 
easily  decipherable  for  the  tears  which  the  orphan 
girl  had  shed  over  it: 

'My  OWN  DEAR  EnwARn, — I  have  loved  you  so 

dearly  and  so  foolishly,  and  you  have  been  so  kind 

to  me,  that  1  have  quite  forgotten  how  unworthy 

I  am  flf  your   affection.      But  I  am  forgetful  no 

longer.      Something   has    happened    which    has 

opened   my   eyes  to  njy  own  folly — I  know  now 

'  that  you  did  not  love  me;  that  1  had  no  claim  to 

;  your  love;  no  charms   or  attractions  such  as  so 

'  many  other  women  possess,  and  for  which  you 

/  might  have  loved  me.     1  know  this  now,  dear  Ed- 

'  ward,  -and  that  all  my  happiness  lias  been  a  fool- 

;  ish  dream:  but  do  not  think  that  I  blame  any  but 

;  myself  for   v/hat  has  happened.      Take  my  for- 

:  tune:  long  ago,  when  I  was  a  little  girl,  i  asked 

;  mj'  father  to  let  nic  share  it  with  you.     I  ask  you 

'  now  to  take   it   all,  dear  tViend;  and  I  go  away 

;  forever  from  a  house  in  which  I  have  learnt  how 

!  little  happiness  riches  can  give.     Do  not  be  un- 

J  happy_  about  me.    I  shall  pray  for  you  alv/ays — 

always  remembering  your  goodness  to  m'y  dead 

;  father;  always  looking  back  to  the  day  upon  which 

you  came  to  see  us  in  our  poor  lodging.  I  am  very 

ignorant   of  all  worldly  business,  but  I  hope  the 

law  Avill  let  me  give  you  Marchmont  ToAvers  and 

all    my  fortune,    whatever  it  may  be.     Let  Mr, 

Paulette  see  this  latter  part  of  my  letter,  and  let 

him  fully  understand  that  I  abandon  all  my  rights 

!  to   you  from  this  day.      Good-bye,  dear  friend; 

■  think  of  nie  sometimes,  but  never  think  of  me 

sorrowfully.  Mart  Marchmont.' 

This  was  all.  This  was  the  letter  which  the 
heart-broken  girl  had  written  to  her  lover.  It  was 
in  no  manner  different  from  the  letter  she  might 
have  written  to  him  nine  years  before  in  Oakley 
Street.  It  was  as  childish  in  its  ignorance  and 
inexperience;  as  womanly  in  its  tender  self-abne- 

,  gation. 

Edward  Arundel  stared  at  the  simple  lines  like 
a  man  in  a  dream,  doubtful  of  his  OM'n   identity, 

'doubtful   of  the  reality  of  the  world  about  him, 

•  in-his  hopeless  wonderment.  He  read  the  letter 
(line  by  line  again  and  again,  first  in  dull  stupefac- 
\  tion  and  muttering  the  words  mechanically  as  he 
(read  them,  with  the  full  light  of  their  meaning 

•  dawning  gradually  upon  him. 

Her  fortune  !  He,  had  never  loved  her !  She 
I  had  discovered  her  own  folly  !  What  did  it  all 
:  mean  ';  What  was  the  clew  to  the  mystery  of  this 
'  letter,  which  had  stunned   and  bewildered  him, 

until  the  very  power  of  rellection  seemed  lost? 
:  The  dawning  of  that  day  had  seen  their  parting, 
;  and  the  innocent  face  had  been  lifted  to  his,  beam- 
;  ing  with  love  and  trust.  And  now? —  The  letter 
;  dropped  from  his  hand,  and  fluttered  slowly  to  the 
;  ground.  Olivia  Marchmont  stooped  to  pick  it  up. 
;Her  movement  aroused  the  young  man  from  his 

stupor,  and  in  that  n»omc»t  he  caught  the  iigiit 
'  of  lij»  coushi's  livid  face. 


JOiiN  MARCUMOIVt'S  LEGACY. 


61 


He  started  as  if  a  thunder-bolt  had  burst  at ' 
liis  feet.  An  idea,  sudden  as  some  inspired  reve- 
lation, rushed  into  his  mind. 

'Read  that  letter,  Olivia  Marchmont  !'he  said. 

The  woman  obeyed.  Slowly  and  deliberately 
she  read  tho  childish  epistle  which  Mary  had 
written  to  her  lover.  In  every  line,  in  every 
word ,  the  widow  saw  the  effect  of  her  own  deadly 
work;  she  saw  how  deeply  the  poison',  dropped 
from  her  own  envenomed  tongue,  had  sunk  into 
the  iniinocent  heart  of  the  girl. 

Edward  Arundel  watched  her  with  ilaming 
eyes.  His  tall  .'soldierly  frame  trembled  in  the 
intensity  of  his Dassion.  He  followed  his  cousin's 
eyes  along  tlieiincs  in  Mary  Marciimont's  letter, 
waiting  till  she  should  come  to  the  end.  Then 
the  tumultuous  storm,  of  indignation  burst  forth, 
until  Olivia  cowered  beneath  the  lightning  of  her 
cousin's  glance. 

Was  tills  the  man  she  had  called  friA'olous .' 
Was  this  the  boyish,  red-coated  dandy  she  had 
despised?  Was  this  the  curled  and  perfumed 
representative  of  swelldom,  whose  talk  never 
soared  to  higher  flights  than  the  description  of  a 
day's  snipc-shooliog,  or  a  run  with  the  Burleigh 
fox-hounds  ?  The  wicked  woman 's  eyelids  drooped 
over  her  averted  ejes;  s!ie  Jurned  away,  shrink- 
ing from  this  fearless  accuser. 

'This  mischiff  is  some  of  your  work,  Olivia 
Marchmont  J'  Edward  Arundel  cried.  'It  is  you 
who  have  slandered  and  traduced  me  to  my  dead 
friend's  daughter  !  Who  else  would  dare  accuse 
a  Dangerlield  Arundel  of  baseness.'  who  else 
would  be  vile  enough  to  call  my  father's  son  a 
liar  and  a  traitor?  it  is  you  who  have  whispered 
shameful  insinuatio>is  into  this  poor  child's  inno- 
cent ear !  1  scarcely  need  the  confirmation  of 
your  ghastly  face  to  tell  me  this.  It  is  you  who 
have  driven  Mary  Marchmont  from  the  home  in 
which  you  should  have  sheltered  and  protected 
her!  You  envied  her,  I  suppose— envied  her  Ihc 
thousands  which  might  have  ministered  to  your 
wicked  pride  and  ambition;  the  pride  which  iias 
always  held  you  aloof  from  those  who  might  have 
loved  you;  the  ambition  tliat  has  made  you  a 
soured  and  discontented  woman,  whose  gloomy 
face  repels  ail  natural  affection.  Yon  envied  the 
gentle  girl  whom  your  dead  husband  committed 
to  your  care,  and  who  should  have  been  most  sa- 
cred to  you.  Yon  envied  her,  and  seized  the  first 
occasion  upon  which  you  might  stab  her  to  the 
very  core  of  her  tender  heart.  What  dther  mo- 
tive could  you  have  had  for  doing  this  deadly 
wrong  ?     rVone,  so  help  rae  Heaven  !' 

No  other  motive!  Olivia  Marchniont  dropped 
down  in  a  heap  on  the  ground  near  htr  cousin's 
feet;  not  kneeling,  hut  groveling  upon  the  car- 
peted lloor,  with  her  hands  twisted  one  in  the 
other,  and  writhing  convulsively,  and  with  her 
head  falling  forward  on  her  breast.  She  uttered 
no  syllable  of  self-justilication  or  denial.  The 
pitiless  word<  rained  down  upon  her  provoked  no 
reply.  But  in  the  depths  of  her  heart  ^ounded 
.  the  echo  of  Kdward  Arundel's  words  :  'The pride 
which  has  always  held  you  jiloof  from  those  who 
might  have  loved  you;  ...  a  disr.ontinted  wo- 
man, whose  gloomy  face  repels  all  natural  affec- 
tion.' 

'O  God  !'  she  thought,  'he  miplil  have  loved 
mo,  then!  lie  might  have  loved  me,  if  I  could 
have  locked  my  anguish  in  my  own  heart,  and 
smiled  at  him  and  flatti-red  him  !' 

And  then  an  icy  indifTercntc  took  possession  of 
her.     What  did  it  matter  that  Edward  Aruodci 


repudiated  and  hated  her  ?  He  had  never  loved 
her.  His  careless  friendliness  had  made  as  wide 
a  gulf  between  them  as  his  bitterest  hat(!  could 
ever  make.  Perhaps,  indeed,  bus  new-born  hate 
would  be  nearer  to  love  than  his  indiflbrence  had 
been,  for  at  least  he  would  think  of  her  now,  if 
he  thought  ever  so  bitterly. 

'Listen  to  me,  Olivia  Marchmont,'  the  young 
man  said,  while  tlic  woman  still  crouched  upon 
the  ground  near  his  feet,  self-confessed  in  the 
abandonment  of  her  despair.  'Wherever  this 
girl  may  have  gone,  driven  honce  by  jour  wick- 
edness, I  will  follow  her.  My  answer  to  the  lie 
you  have  insinuated  against  me  shall  be  my  im- 
mediate marriage  with  my  old  friend's  orphan 
child.  Jle  knew  me  well  enough  to  know  how 
far  1  was  above  the  baseness  of  a  fortune-hunter, 
and  he  wished  that  I  should  be  his  daughter's  hus- 
band. I  should  be  a  coward  and  a  fool  were  1  to 
be  for  one  moment  influenced  by  such  a  slander  as 
that  which  you  have  whispered  in  Mary  Marcii- 
mont's ear.  It  is  not  the  individual  only  wliom 
you  traduce.  You  slander  the  cloth  I  .wear,  the 
family  to  which  I  belon'g,  and  my  best  justifica- 
tion will  be  the  contempt  in  which  I  hold  your 
infamous  insinuations.  When  you  hear  that  1 
have  squandered  Mary  Marchmont's  fortune,  or 
,  cheated  the  children  1  pray  God  she  may  live  to 
bear  me,  it  will  be  time  enough  for  you  to  tell  thi' 
world  that  your  kinsman,  Edward  Dangcrfield 
Arundel,  is  a  swindler  and  a  traitor.' 

lie  strode  out  into  the  hall,  leaving  his  cousin 
on  the  ground;  and  she  heard  his  voice  outside 
the  dining-room  door  making  inquiries  of  the  ser- 
vants. Theycould  tell  him  nothing  ot  Mary's  flight. 
Her  bed  had  not  been  slept  in;  nobody  had  seen 
her  leave  the  house;  it  was  most  likely,  therefore, 
that  she  had  stolen  away  very  early,  before  the 
:  servants  were  astir. 

Where  had  she  gone  ?  Edward  Arundel 's  heart 
beat  wildly  as  he  asked  himself  that  question.  He 
remembered  how  often  he  had  beard  of  women, 
as  young  and  innocent  as  Mary  Marchitiont,  who 
had  rushed  to  destroj'  themselves  in  a  tumult  ot 

■  agony  and  despair.  How  easily  this  poor  child, 
who  believed  that  the  drea'm  of  happiness  was 
forever  broken,  might  have  crept  down  through 

'  tiie  gloomy  wood  to  the  edge  of  the  sluffgish  river, 

■  to  drop  into  the  weedy  stream  and  hide  her  sor- 
row under  the  <|uiel  water  !  He  could  fancy  her, 
a  new  Ophelia,  pale  and  pure  as  the  Danisli 
prince's  slighted  love,  floating  past  the  weird 
Ijranchcs  of  the  willows,  home  up  for  a  while  by 
the  current,  to  sink  in  silence  among  the  shadow* 
farther  down  the  stream. 

Fe  thought  of  these  things  in  one  moment,  and 
in  the  next  dismissed  the  thonglit.  Mary's  letter 
breathed  the  spirit  of  gentle  resignation  rather 
than  of  wild  despair.  '1  shall  always  pray  for 
you;  I  shall  always  remember  you,'  she  had  writ- 
ten. "Her  lover  remembered  how  much  sorrow 
the  orph.-in  girl  had  endured  in  her  brief  life,  lie 
•looked  back  to  her  childish  days  of  poverty  and 
self-denial;  her  early  loss  of  her  mother;  her 
grief  at  her  father's  second  marriage;  the  shock 
of  that  beloved  father's  death.  Her  sorrows  hail 
followed  eacli  other  in  gloorty  succession,  with 
only  narrow  intervals  of  peace  between  each  new 
figonv.  She  was  accustomed,  therefore,  to  grief. 
It  is  the  soul  untutored  by  alliiction.thc  rebellious 
heart  that  has  never  known  calamity,  which  be- 
comes mad  and  de^p^rate,  and  breaks  under  the 
first  blow.  Mary  Marchmont  had  learned  the 
habit  of  endurance  in  th»  hard  school  of  lorrow. 


oa  JOHN  MAllCllIvlOJs'T'S  LEGACY.  9 

^Edward  Arundel  walked  out  upon  the  terrace,  '  'Tell  Mrs.  Marckmonl  that  1  shal'l  not  return 
and  rc-rcad  the  missing  girl's  letter.  He  was  to  the  Towers  till  I  brin;;  her  step-daujihter  with 
calmer  now,  and  able  to  face  the  situation  with  me,' he  said  to  the  groom;  aiid  then,  without  stop- 
all  its  dilliculties  and  perplexities.  He  was  losing  ping  to  utter  another  word,  he  shook  the  rein  on 
time,  perhaps,  in  stopping  to  deliberate,  but  it  ,hi^  horse's  neck,  and  £,al!o|)ed  away  along  the 
was  no  use  to  rush  off  in  reckless  haste,  undeter-  graveled  drive  leading  lo  tl;c  great  iron  gates  of 
mined  in  which  direction  he  should  seek  for  the  ,  Marchmont  Towers. 

lost  mistress  of  Marchmont  Towers.  One  of  the  ;  Oiivia  heard  his  message,  which  had  been  spo- 
grooms  was  busy  in  the  stables  saddling  Captain  *  ken  in  a  clear  loud  voice,  like  some  knightly  defi- 
Arundel's  horse,  and  in  the  mean  time  the  young  ance,  sounding  trumpet-like  at  a  castle  gate.  She 
man  went  out  alone  upon  the  sunuy  terrace  to  'stood  ip  one  of  the  windows  of  the  dining-room, 
deliberate  upon  Mary's  letter.  -  hidden  by  the  faded  velvet 'curtain,  and  watched 

Complete  resignation  v/as  expressed   in  every  .j'^V  ^ousin  ride  away,  brave  and  handsome  as  any 
line  of  that  childish  epistle.     The  heiress  spoke  ,;  kmght-errant  of  the  chivalrous  |ast,  and  as  true 
most  decisively  as  to  her  abandonment  of  her  for-  '-^^  liayard  himselt. 
tune  and  her  horae.     It  was  clear,  then,  that  she 
meant  to  leave  Lincolnshire;  for  she  y/ould  know 
that  immediate  steps  would  b,e  taken  to  discover  ■ 

her   hiding-place,  and  bring  her  back  to  March-  CHAPTER  XVL 

mont  Tovv'ers. 

Where  was  she  likely  to  go  in  her  inexperience  anewprotector. 

of  the  outer  world?  where  but  to  those  humble',  Cai'Tain  Arundel's  inquiries  at  the  Kembc. 
relations  of  her  dead  mother's,  of  whom  her  ,  ling  station  resulted  in  an  in:ur.ediatc  success.  A 
father  had  spoken  in  his  letter  to  Edward  Arun- .young  lady— a  young,  woman  the  railway  official 
del,  and  with  Avhom  the  young  man  knew  she  had  (called  her— dressed  in  black,  wearing  a  crape 
kept  up  an  occasional  correspondence,  sending  ;  veil  over  her  face,  ajid  carrying  a  small  carpet- 
thcm  many  little  gifts  out  of  her  pocket-money.  ;  bag  in  her  hand,  had  twken  a  second-class  ticket 
These  people  wpre  small  tenant-farmers  at  a:  •  for  London  by  the  5.50,  a  parliamentary  train, 
place  called  Marlingford,  in  Berkshire.  Edward  which  stopped  at  almost  every  station  on  the 
knewtheir  name  and  the  name  of  the  farm.  ,]ine,   and  reached  Euston,  Square   at   half  paet 

'I'll  make  inquiries  at  the  Kemberling  station    twelve, 
to  begin  with,' he  thought.      'There's  a  through  ^     Edward  looked  at  his  watch.     It  was  t^n  miu- 
train  from  the  north  that  stops   at  Kemberling  aiutes  to  two  o'clock.     The  express  did  not  stop  at 
little    before  six.      My  poor  darling   may  have   Kemberling;  but  he  would  be  able  lo  catch  it  at 
easily  caught  that,  if  she  jeft  the  house  at  five.'     :  Swampington  at  a  quarter  past  three.  Evpathen, 

Captain  Arundel  went  back  into  the  hall  and:  however,  he  could  scarcely  hope  to  get  to  Eerk- 
summoned  Barbara  Simmons.      The  v/oman  re-   shire  that  night. 

plied  with  rather  a  sulky,  air  «to  his  numerous  •  'My  darling  girl  will  not  discover  hoA'/ foolish 
questions;  but  she  told  him  that  Miss  Marchmont'  her  doubts  have  &een  until  to-morrovf,' he  thought, 
had  left  her  ball  dress  upon  the  bed,  and  had  put  'Silly  child  !  has  my  love  so  little  the  aspect  of 
on  a  gray  cashmere  dress  trimmed  with  black  rib- '  truth  that  she  can  doubt  me  ?' 
bon,  whfch  she  had  worn  as  half-mourning  for  ^  He  sprang  on  his  horse  again,  f.ung  a  shilling 
her  father;  a  black  straw  bonnet,  with  a  crape  to  the  railway  porter  who  had  held  tJie  bridje, 
veil,  and  a  silk  mantle  trimmed  with  crape.  She  and  rode  away  along  the  Swampington  road.  The 
had  taken  with  hera  small  carpetbag.some  linen —  clocks  in  the  gray  old  Norman  iiurets  v/ere  strik- 
for  the  linen  drawer  of  her  v/ardrobe  was  open,' ing  three  as  the  young  man  crossed  the  bridge, 
and  the  things  scattered  confusedly  about — and;  and  paid  his  toll  at  the  little  toil-house  by  the 
the  little  morocco  case  in  which  she  kept  her  pearl '.  stone  archway. 

ornaments,  and  the  diamond  rin*-  left  her  by  her  The  streets  were  as  lonely  as  usual  in  the  hot 
father.  Jnly  afternoon;  and  the  long  line  of" sea  beyond 

'Had  she  any  money  ?' Edward  asked.  the   dreary  marshes  was  blue   in   t!ie  sunsnine. 

'Yes,  Sir;  she  v/as  never  without  money.  She  Captain  Arundel  passed  the  two  churches,  and  the 
spent  a  good  deal  among  the  poor  people  t-he  vis-  low-roofed  rectory,  and  rode  away  to  the  out- 
ited  with  my  mistress;  but  1  dare  say  she  may  skirls  of.  the  town,  where  the  station  glared  in 
have  had  between  ten  and  twenty  pounds  in  her ''all  the  brilliancy  of  new  red  bricks,  and  dazzling 
purse.'  "•        .  .stuccoed  chimneys,   athwart  a  desert  of  waste 

'She  will  go  to  Berkshire,'  Edward  Arundel  s ground, 
thought;  'tlie  idea  of  going  to  her  humble  friends  <  The  express  train  came  tearing  up  to  the  quiet 
would  be  the  first  to  present  itself  to  her  mind.,' platform  two  minutes  after  Edward  had  taken  his 
She  will  go  to  her  dead -mother's  sister,  Ltnd  give  I  ticket;  and  in  another  minute  the  clanging  bell 
her  all  her  jewels,  and  ask  for  shetttir  in  the  quiet  V  pealed  out  its  discordant  signal,  and  the  young 
farm-house.  She  will  act  like  one  of  the  hero-<  man  was  borne,  with  a  shriek  and  a  whistle,  away 
ines  in  the  old-fashioned  novels  she  used  to  read  !upon  the  first  stage  of  his.  search  for  Mary  I'.Iarc;  - 
in  Oakley  Street,  the  simple-minded  dawsels  of  jmont. 

those  innocent  story-books,  who  think  nothing  of  |     It  was  nearly  seven  o'clock  when  he  reached 
resio-ning  a  castle  a,nd  a  coronet,  and  ^,oing  out>  Euston  Square;  artd  he  only  got  to  the  Padding- 
into  the  world  to  work  for  their  daily  bread  in  a-  ton  station  in  time  to  hear  that  the  last  train  for  ' 
white  satin  gov/n,  and  with  a  string  of  pearls  to  |  Marlingford  had  just  started.    There  was  no  pos- 
bind  their  dis'beveled  locks.''  '  sibility  of  his  reaching  the  little  Berkshire  vil-' 

Captain  Arundel's  horse  was  brouaht  round  to;  lage  that  night.  No  mail  train  stopped  within  a 
the  terrace-steps,  as  he  stood  with  Mary's  letter ,' reasonable  distance  of  the  obscure  station.  There 
in  his  hand,  waiting  to  rush  away  to  the  rescue  of;  was  no  help  for  it  therefore.  Captain  Arundel 
his  sorrowful  love.  ;  had  nothing  to  do  but  to  wait  for  the  next  morning. 


JOHN  iMARCHMONT'S  LEGACY.  (13 

ITI'^  walked  slowly  away  from  the  station,  very  rather  than  that  upon  which  Providence  had  sent 
miich  disheartened  by  this  discoTery..  ■  ;him  a  fare. 

'I'd  better  sleep  at  some  hotel  lip  this  way,' he  ;  'Oakley  Street,  Lambeth,'  the  young  mnn 
thought,  as  he  strolled  listlessly  in  the  direction ';  cried.  'Double  fare  if  you  get  there  jn  ten 
of  Oxford  Street,  'so  as  to  be  on  the  spot  to  catch    minutes.' 

the  first  train  to-morrow  morning,  ^^'hat  am  I  to  ■  The  tall  raw-boned  horse  rattled  off  at  that  pe- 
do  with  myself  all  this  night,  racked  .with  uncer- '  culiar  pace  common  to  his  species,  making  d?* 
tainty  about  Mary?'  much  noise  upon  the  pavement  as  if  he  had  been 

He  remembered  that  one  of  his  brother  officers  winning  a  metropolitan  Derby,and  at  about  twenty 
was  staying  at  the  hotel  iaCovent  Garden  where  ^  minutes  past  nine  drew  up,  smoking  nnd  panting, 
Edward  himself  stopped,  whdn  business  detained  before  the  dir»ly-lighted  window  of  the  Ladies' 
him  in  London  for  a  day  or  two.  Wardrobe.  '  The  proprietress  was  lolling  ag'hinst 

'Shall  I  go  and  see  Lucas?'  Captain  Arundel   the  door-post,   refreshing  herself  with   the  soft 
lliought.      'He's   a  good  fellow,  and  won't  bore   cTcning  breezes  from  the  roads  of  Wcftminster 
me  with  a  lot  of  questions,  if  he  sees  I've  some-  ■  and  AVaterlod,  and  talking  to  a  neighbor, 
thing  on  my  mind.      There  may  be  some  letters       'Bless  her  pore  innercent  'art !'  the  woman  was 
for  me  at  L 's.     Poor  little  Polly!'  saying;  'she's  cried  herself  to  sleep  at  last.     But 

The  young  soldier  walked  through  the  lamp-lit  'you  never  heard  any  think  so  pitiful  as  she  talked 
western  streets  thinking  of  the  missing  girl,  now  to  me  at  fust,  sweet  love  !  and  the  very  picture  of 
assuring  himself  that  his  instinct  had  not  deceived  my  ov^n  poor  Eliza  .Jane,  as  she  looked.  You 
him,  and  that  Mary  musthave  gone  straight  to  the  might  have  said  it  was  Eliza  .Tane  come  back  to 
Berkshire  farmer's  house,  and  in  the  next  moment  life,  only  paler  and  more  sickly  like,  and- not  that 
seized  with  a  sudden  terror  that  it  might  be  other-  beautiful  fresh  color,  and  ringlets  curled  all  round 
^visc:  the  helpless  girl  might  have  gone  out  into    in  a  crop,  as  Eliza  .la — ' 

a  world  of  which  she  was  as  ignorant  as  a  child,  Edward  Arundel  burst  in  upon  the  good  woman's 
determined  to  hide  herself  from  all  who  had  ever  .  talk,  which  rambled  on  in  an  uiiintcrmitting 
known  her.  ^^^strearn,  unbroken  by  much  punctuation. 

•  He  would  put  advertisements  in  the  papers,  'Miss  Marchmont  is  here,' he  said; '1  know  she 
calling  upon  his  betrothed  to  trust  him  and  return  ,'s-  Thank  God,  thank  God!  Let  me  see  her, 
tehim.  Perhaps  Ma>y  Marchmont  was  of  all  ;  P'^ase,  directly.  I  am  Captain  Arundel,  her 
people  in  this  world  the  least  likely  to  look  into  : father's  friend,  and  her  aRianced  husband.  You 
a  newspaper;  but  at  least  itwould  be  doing  some- :  remember  me,  perhaps  -  1  came  here  nine  years 
thing  to  do  this,  and  Edward  Arundel  determined  :  ai^o  '"  breakfast,  one  December  morning.  I  can 
upon  going  straight  off  to  Printing-Heuso  Square  :  recollect  you  perfectly,  and  I  know  that  you  were 
to  draw  up  an  appeal  to  the  missing  girl.  •.  3 'ways  good  to  my  poor  friend's  daughter.     To 

T,  ,  .         •ill        <-i     ^   ■      «        J  1    think  that  I  should  find  her  here !      You  shall  be 

It  was  past  ten  o  clock  when  Captain  Arundel  ^.^,i  rewarded  for  your  kindness  to  her.  But  take 
came  to  this  determmation,  and  he  had  reached  -:  ,^^^  ^^  ^  take  me  to  her  at  once  !' 

he  neighborhood  of  Govent  Garden  and  of  the  rj,^^  proprietress  of  the  wardrobe  snatched  up 
theatres.  The  staring  play-bills  adorned 'almost  ■  ^„^  ^,(.  'the  candles  that  guttered  in  a  brass  flat- 
every  threshold,  and  flu  lered  against  every  door-   ^^„^l,^5ti^,^  t,,e      „^„ter,  and  led  the  wav  un 

post ;  and  the  young  soldier,  going  into  a  tobacco-   tijp  ,^^j.,.Q^,  ^t!^;j,^jj^g 

lust's  to  fill  his  cigar-case,  stared  abslractedly  at  .  g,,^  opened"  the  door  of  that  shabby  sitting- 
a  gaudy  blue  and  red  announcement  of  the  Jas  ^^^^  upon  the  first-floor,  in  which  the  crippled 
dramalic  a  traction  to  be  seen  at  Drurjr  Lane,  t  ^  .^  hUdeA  over  the  convex  mirror,  and  siood 
was  scarcely  strange  that  the  Captain  s  thoughts    ^^^j^  t,,^  threshold  v.-hile  Captain   Arundel 

wandered  back  to  fiis  boyhood,  that  shadowy  time  ^,^^^^J  t,,^  ^^^^  ^  tallow-candle  w«s  burnmg 
lar  away  behind  his  later  days  of  Indian  warlare    ^u^,  ^y^^  t^,,,     ^^j  ^    (^1;,^  (orm  lav  upon 

and  glory ;  and  that  he  remembered  the  December  ,he  narrow  horse-hair  sofa,  shrouded  by  u  woolen 
night  upon  which  he  had  sat  with  his  cousin  in  a  '   Uniyi 

box  at  the  great  patent  theatre,  watphing  the  con-  ,,,,,;  ^^^^^  to  sldtp  about  half  an  hour  ago,  Sir,' 
sumpt.ve  supernumerary  struggimg  under  the  ,^^  ^.^^^^^  ^^-^  .^^^  she  cried  herself  to  sleep, 
weight  of  his  banner.  From  the  box  at  Drury  ■:  ^^^  ,^„,l,  j  t^^j,,,^..  I  ^^j^  1,^^.  ,ome.  tea.  nnd 
Lane  to  the  next  mornings  'irealffast  in  Oakley  '^  j,^^  ^  ^^^  ^^^^^^  ^.^j  ^  p.^nch  roll,  with  a 
Street  was  but  a- natural  tr.insition  of  thought;  ^-^^^  best  fresh;  but  she  wouldn't  touch  nulhin', 
but  with  that  reco  lection  of  the  huinble  Lam-  -^  ^^1^  ^  ,-^^  spoonfuls  of  the  tea,  just  to  plea^. 
belh  lodging,  with  the  picture  of  a  h    le  girl  in  a  .   -^^^^t  j,  j'  n.^ti^  j.^^e  1,^,  ^;,^^  j-,,„;,,  j.^.^ 

pinafore,  siUit,g  demurer  at  her  lather's  table,  -omc,  Sir,  and  such  a  good  •one.  too?  She  showed 
and  moekly  waiting  on  his  guest,  an  idea  flashed  ^,^  ^  diamond  nng  as  her  pore  par  give  her  in  his 
acroxs  Edward  Arundel  8  mind,  and  brought  the.  ^^.j,,  pj^  j^fj  n.^^'twenty  pound,  pore  gentleman 
Uot  blood  intB  his  face.  —which  he  always  actfd  like  a  gentleman  bred 

^Vhat  if  Mary  had  gone  to  Oakley  Strcrt?  W3«;  ,  a;irf  horn;  and  Mr.  Pollit,  tiic  lawyer,  sent  his 
not  this  even  more  likely  than  that  she  should  dcrk  along  with  it  and  his  compliment.s — though 
»eek  refuge  with  h«r  kinsfolk  in  TV-'-^i-- :  Wh.-it  I'm  sure  1  never  looked  for  nothink,havin'alway< 
morn  natural  than  that  she  sho  tn  the    i,,,j  niy  rent  faithful  to  the  very  minute;  and  .Mi^s 

familiar  habitation,   dear  to   1    ,  "  ff  a  ,  Mary.  Uicd  to  bring  it  down   to  me  «o  prdly, 

thousand  associations  with  hei  dead  father  -  and-^' 

Edward  Arundel  was  almost  top  impatirnl  to]  But  the  whispering  had  grown  louder  by  this 
wait  whiiti  the  imart  yoim"  damiel  '  '<  -'lime,  and  .Mary  Marchmont  awoke  from  her  ferer- 

barconist's  counter  handc'd   him  cl  ij    i^h  s'erp,  and  "liCtf-d  her  weary  head  from  the  hard 

half  snTc-ci-n    which  he  hid  just  '  '■.    horr-c-hair  pillow  and  looked  about  her,  half  for- 

He  dirt'd  out  into   the  street,  :in  ..g».1'"iil  (.(  nhrre  she  wa»,  and  of  what  had  hap- 

lently  to  thedriverof  apsssiophansu,   .  xs'p*''*'''  within  the  last  eighteen  hours  of  her  lile. 

after  th?  munnrr  of  his  kind,  looking  on  any  >ide   The  "ott  brown  eyes  windtred  here  tnd  thire, 


<J4 


JOHN  MARCHxMONT'S  LEGACY, 


doubtful  as  to  the  reality  of  what  they  looked 
upon,  until  the  a.irl  saw  her  lover's  figure,  tall  and 
splendid  in  tlie  liumble  apartment,  a  tender  half- 
reproachful  smile  upon  his  face,  and  his  handsome 
blue  eyes  beaniin;!  with  love  and  truth.  She  saw 
him,  and  a  faint  shriek  broke  from  her  tremulous 
lips  as  she  tottered  a  feiv  paces  forward  and  fell 
upon  his  breast. 

'You  love  me,  then,  Edward,'  she  cried;  'you 
do  love  me  !' 

'Yes,  my  darling,  as  truly  and  tenderly  as  ever 
woman  was  loved  upon  this  earth.' 

And  then  the  soldier  sat  down  upon  the  hard 
briitlv  sofa,  and  with  ISIary's  head  still  resting 
upon  "his  breast,  and  his  strong  hand  straying 
;iiuong  her  disordered  hair,  he  reproached  her  for 
lier  fo^olishness,  and  comforted  and  soothed  her; 
while  the  proprietress  of  the  apartment  stood, 
with  the  brass  candlestick  in  her  hand,  watching 
t!'.e  young  lovers  and  weeping  over  their  sorrows, 
ns  if  she  had  been  witnessing  a  scene  in  a  play. 
Their  innocent  affection  was  unrestrained  by  the 
o;ood  woman's  presence;  and  when  Mary  had 
s^miled  upon  her  lover,  and  assured  him  that  she 
would  nevr.r,  never,  never  doubt  him  again,  Cap- 
tain Arundel  was  fain  to  kiss  the  soft-hearted 
landlady  in  his  enthusiasm,  and  to  promise.her 
the  handsomest  silk  dress  that  had  ever  been  seen 
in  Oaklev  Street,  among  all  the  faded  splendors 
of  silk  and  satin  that  ladies'-maids  brought  for 
iier  consideration. 

'Ar,d  now,  my  darling,  my  foolish  runav/ay 
Polly,  what  is  to  be  done  with  you?'  asked  the 
young  soldier.  'Will  you  go  back  to  the  Towers 
to-morrow  morning  r' 

Mary  Marchmotit  clasped  her  hands  before  her 
face,  and  began  to  tremble  violently. 

'Oh  no,  no,  no  !'  she  cried;  'don't  ask  me  to  go 
back,  Edward.  I  can  never  go  back  to  that  house 
ai^ain,  while — ' 

She  stopped  suddenly;  looking  piteously  at  her 
lover. 

'While  my  cousin  Olivia  Marchmont  lives  there, ' 
Captain  Arundel  said,  with  an  angry  frown.  'God 
knows  it's  a  bitter  thing  for  me  y)  think  that  your 
troubles  should  come  from  any  of  my  kith  and  kin, 
Polly.  She  has  used  you  very  badly,  then,  this 
■  woman  i    She  has  been  very  unkind  to  you  ?' 

'No,  no  I  never  before  last  night.  It  seems  so 
long  ago;  but  it  was  only  last  night,  was  it?  Until 
then  she  was  always  kind  to  me.'  I  didn't  love 
her,  you  know,  though  I  trie<t  to  do  so  for  papa's 
sake ,"^  and  out  of  gratitude  to  her  for  taking  such 
trouble  with  my  education;  but  one  can  be  grate- 
ful to  people  without  loving  them,  and  I  never 
grew  to  love  her.  But  last  night — last  night  she 
said  such  cruel  thing"  to  me — such  cruel  things. 
O  Edward,  Edward!'  the  girl  cried  suddenly, 
clasping  her  hands  and  looking  imploringly  at 
Caplain^  Arundel,  'were  the  cjuel  things  she  said 
true?  Did  1  do  wrong  wh^n  I  offered  to  be  your 
wife?' 

How  could  the  yoiing  man  answer  this  question 
except  by  clamping  his  betrothed  to  his  heart?  So 
there  wa*  another  little  love  scene,  over  whicli 
Mrs  Pimpernel — the  proprietress's  name  wns 
i'impernel — wept  fresh  tears,  murmuring  thatjhe 
('.  i|;!i-'n:  wa>*  thf.s\v>-etest  young  man,  sweeter  than 
,Vh-.  .M'icready  in  Claude  Melnock;  and  that  the 
'^vt'iif.  altogether  reninded  her  of  that  'cutting' 
pi)iso<le  where  I  he  proud  mother  went  on  against 
f^e  pore  voung  maii,  and  Miss  Faucit  came  out 
so  heaiitiful.      They  are  a  play-going  population 


in  Oakley  Street,  and  compassionate  and  senti- 
mental like  all  true  play-goers. 

'What  shall  ^  do  with  you,  Miss  Marchmont?' 
Edward  Arundel  asked,  gayly,  when  the  little  love 
scene  was  concluded.  'My  mother  and  sister  are 
away,  at  a  German  watering-place,  trying  some 
unpronoun^'eable  Spa  for  the  benefit  of  poor 
Letty's  health.  Reginald  is  with  them,  and  my 
father's  alone  at  Dangerfield.  Sol  can't  take 
you  down  there,  as  I  might  have  done  if  my  mo- 
ther had  been  at  home;  1  don't  much  care  for  the 
Mostyns,  or  you  might  have  stopped  in  Montague 
Square.  There  are  no  friendly  friars  nowadays 
who  will  marry  Romeo  and  Juliet  at  half  an  hour's  . 
Ootice.  You  must  live  a  fortnight  somewhere, 
Polly:  where  shall  it  be?' 

'Oh,  let  me  stay  here,  please,'  Miss  Marchmont 
pleaded;  'I  was  always  so  happy  here!' 

'Lord  love  her  precious  heart !'  exclaimed  Mrs. 
Pimpernel,  lifting  up  her  hands  in  a  rapture  of 
admiration.  'To  think  as  she  shouldn't  have  a 
bit  of  pride,  after  all  the  money  her  pore  par 
come  into!  To  think  as  she  should  wish  to  stay 
in  her  old  lodgins,  where  every  think  shall  be 
done  to  make  her  comfortable;  and  the  air  back, 
and  front  is  very  'ealthy  though  youmight  not  be- 
lieve it,^  and  the  Blind  School  and  Bedlam  hard 
by,  and  Kennington  Common  only  a  pleasant 
walk,  and  beautiful  and  open, this  warm  summer 
weather.' 

'Yes,  I  should  like  to  stop  here,  please,'  Mary 
murmured.  Even  in  the  midst  of  her  agitation, 
overwhelmed  as  she  was  by  the  emotions  of  the 
present,  her  thoughts  went  back  to  the  past,  and 
she  remembered  how  delightful  it  would  be  to  go 
and  see  the  accommodating  butcher,  and  the  green 
grocer's  daugliter,  the  kind  butterman  who  had 
called  her  'litt!e  lady,'  and  the  disreputable  gray 
parrot.  How  delightful  it  would  be  to  see  these 
humble  friends,  now  that  she  was  grown  up,  and 
had  money  wherewith  to  make  them  presents  it) 
token  of  her  gratitude  ! 

'Very  well,  then,  Polly,' Captain  Arundel  said, 
'  you'll  stay  here.     And  Mrs — ' 

'  Pimpernel,'  the  landlady  suggested. 

'  Mrs.  Pimpernel  will  take  as  good  care  of  you 
as  if  you  were  Queen  of  England,  and  the  wel- 
fare of  the  nation  depended  upon  your  safety. 
And  I'll  stop  at  my  hotel  in  Covent  Garden,  and 
I'll  see  Richard  Paulette — he's  my  lawyer  as  well 
'as  yours,  you  know,  Polly — and  tell  him  some- 
thing of  what  has  happened,  and  make  arrange- 
ments for  our  immediate  marriage.' 

'  Our  Inarriagc !' 

Mary  Marchmont  echoed  her  lover's  last  words, 
and  looked  up  at  him  almost  with  a  bewildered 
air.  She  had  never  thought  of  an  early  marriage 
with  Edward  Arundel  as  the  result  of  her  dight 
from  Lincolnshire.  •  She  had  a  vague  notion  that 
she  would  live  in  Oakley  Street  for  years,  and 
that  in  some  remote  <imc,  the  soldier  would  come 
to  claim  her. 

•Yes,  Poliy  darling;  Olivia  Marchmont's  con- 
duct has  made  nie  decide  upon  a  very  bold  step. 
It  is  evident  to  me  that  my  cousin  hates  you;  for 
wfiat  reason.  Heaven  only  knows,  since  you  can 
have  done  nothing  to  proToke  her  hate.  When 
your  father  was  a  poor  man,  it  was  to  me  he 
u'ould  have  confided  t""-  lie  changed  his  mind 
oMerward,  very  n-tt '.'.rally,  and  chose  another 
9:unrdian  for  his  orphan  child,  if  my  cousin  had 
fulfilled  this  trust,  Mary,  1  would  have  deferred 
to  her  authority,  and  would  have  held  myself 
aloof  luitil  your  minority  was  passed,  rather  than 


JOHN   MARCHMONT'S   LEGACY. 


ask  you  to  marry  me  without  your  step-mother's  ' 
consent.  But  Olivia  Marchniont  ha>  forfeited 
her  right  to  be  consulted  in  this  matter.  She  has 
tortured  you  and  traduced  me  by  her  poisonous 
slander.  If  you  believe  in  me,  Mary,  you  will 
consent  to  be  my  wife.  My  justification  lies  in 
the  future.  You  will  not  find  that  1  shall  sponge  j 
upon  your  fortune,  my  dear,  or  lead  an  idle  life 
because  my  wife  is  a  rich  woman.'  '/ 

Mary  Marchniont  looked   up  with  shy  tender-  . 
ness  at  her  lover.  ] 

'  I  would  rather  the  fortune  were  yours  than 
mine,  Edward,'  she  said.  '  1  wilt  do  whatever 
you  wish;  I  will  be  guided  by  you  in  everything.' 

It  wat^  thus  that  John  .Nlarchmont's  daughter 
consented  to  become  the  wife  of  the  man  she 
loved,  the  roan  whose  image  she  had  associated 
since  her  childhood  with  all  that  was  good  and 
beautiful  in  mankind.  Sh*  knew  none  of  those 
pretty  stereotyped  phrases  by  means  of  which 
well-bred  young  ladies  can  go  through  a  graceful 
fencing-match  of  hesitation  and  equivocation,  to 
the  anguish  of  a  doubtful  and  adoring  suitu^. 
She  had  no  ijotion  of  that  delusive  negative,  that 
bewitching  feminine  '  no,'  which  is  proverbially 
understood  to  mean  'yes.'  Weary  courses  of 
Roman  Emperors,  South  Sea  Islands,  Sidereal 
Heavens,  Tertiary  and  Old  Red  Sandstone,  had 
very  ill-prepared  this  poor  little  girl  for  the  stern 
realities  of  life.  , 

*  I  will   be   guided   by  you,  dear  Edward,' she 
said;  *  my  father  wished  me  to  be  your  wife,  and 
if  I  did  not  love  you,  it  would  please  me  to  obey  ; 
him.' 

It  was  eleven  o'clock  when  Captain  Arundel 
left  Oakley  Street.  The  hansom  had  been  wait- 
ing all  the  time,  and  the  driver,  seeing  that  his 
fare  was  young,  handsome,  dashing,  and  what  he 
called  '  milingtary-like,'  demanded  an  enormous 
sum  when  he  landed  the  young  soldier  before  the  i 
portico  ofthe  hotel  in  Covent  Garden. 

Kdward  took' a  hasty  breakfast  the  next  morn- ' 
ing,  and  then  hurried  off  to  Lincoln's-Inn  Fields. 
Hut  here  a  disappointment  awaited  him.     Rich-  : 
ard  Paulette  had  started  for  Scotland  upon  a  pis-  [ 
catorial  excursion.     The  elder  Paulette  lived  in 
the  south  of  France,  and  kept  his   name   in  the 
business  as  a  fiction,  by  means  of  which  elderly 
and  obstinate  country  clients  were  deluded  into  ' 
the  belief  that  the  solicitor  who  conducted  their  ' 
art'airs  was  the  same  legal  practitioner  who  had  ' 
done  business  for  their  fathers  and  grandfather* 
before   them.     Mathewson,    a    grim    man,    was , 
awa"y  among  the  Yorkshire  wolds,  superintending  '■ 
the    foreclosure   of    certain    mortgages    upon    a 
bankrupt  baronet's  estate.     It  was  not  likely  that 
Ckptaiii  Arundel  could  sit  down  and    pour  his  se- 
crets into  the  bosom   of  a  clerk,  however  tru-t- 
worthy  and   confidential    a  personage    that  eiii- 
ployo  might  be. 

The  young  man'.s  desire  had  been  that  his  mar- 
riagewiih  Mary  Marchmont  should  take  plarr  n\ 
least  with  the  knowledge  and  approbation  of  her 
dead'fathcr's  lawyer;  but  he  was  impatient  to  ««- 
■ume  the  only  title  by  which  he  might  have  a 
right  to  be  the  orphan  girl's  champion  and  pro- 
tector; and  he  had  therefore  no  inc(iiiation  to 
wait  until  the  long  vacation  was  over,  and 
Messrs.  Paulette  and  Mathewnon  returned  from 
their  northern  wanderings.  Again,  Msry  March- 
mont sutfered  from  a  continual  dreud  that  her 
step-mother  would  discover  the  secret  of  her 
humble  retreftt,  end  would  follow  her  and  rvai- 
»un«  authority  over  her,  * 


'  Let  me  be  your  wife  before  I  see  her  again, 
Edward,'  the  girl  pleaded,  innocently,  when  Ihii 
terror  was  uppermost  in  her  mind.  •  She  eould 
not  say  cruel  things  to  me  if  1  were  your  wife.  I 
know  it  is  wicked  to  be  so  frightened  of  her,  be- 
cause she  was  always  good  to  me  until  that  night; 
but  I  ca;i  not  tell  you  how  I  tremble  a»  tho 
thought  of  being  alone  with  hei^  at  Marchmont 
Towers.  I  dream  sometimes  that  I  am  with  her 
in  the  gloomy  old  house,  and  that  we  two  are  all 
alone'tJiere,  even  the  servants  all  gone,  and  Tou 
far  away  in  India,  Edward — at  the  other  end  of 
the  world.' 

It  was  as  much  as  her  lover  could  do  to  sooth* 
and  reassure  the  trembling  girl  when  these 
thoughts  took  possession  of  her.  Had  he  been 
less  sanguine  and  impetuous,  less  careless  in  tho 
buoyancy  of  his  spirits.  Captain  Arundel  might 
have  seen  that  Ma^'s  nerves  bad  been  terribly 
shaken  by  the  scene  between  her  and  Olivia,  and 
all  the  anguish  which  hadgiven  rise  to  her  flight 
from  Marchmont  Towers.  The  girl  trembled  at 
every  sound — the  shutting  of  a  door,  the  noise  of 
a  cab  slopping  in  the  street  below,  the  falling  of 
a  book  from  the  table  to  the  floor,  startled  her 
almost  as  much  as  if  a  gunpowder-magazine  had 
exploded  in  the  neighborhood.  The  tears  rose  to 
her  eyes  at  the  slightest  emotion.  Iler  mind  waa 
tortured  by  vague  fears,  which  she  tried  in  vain 
to  explain  to  her  lover.  Her  sleep  was  broken 
by  dismal  dreams,  foreboding  visions  of  shadowy 
evil. 

For  a  little  more  than  a  fortnight  Idward 
Arundel  visited  his  betrothed  daily  in  the  shabby 
first-floor  in  Oakley  Street,  and  sat  by  her  side 
while  she  worked  at  some  fragile  scrap  of  em- 
broidery, and  talked  gayly  to  her  of  the  happy 
future,  to  the  intense  admiration  of  Mrs.  Pimper- 
nel, who  had  no  greater  deliglit  than  to  asssisl  in 
the  pretty  little  sentimental  drama  being  enacted 
on  her  first  floor. 

Thus  it  was  that,  on  a  cloudy  and  autumnal 
August  morning,  Edward  Arundel  and  Mary 
Marchmont  were  married  in  a  great  empty-look- 
ing church  in  the  parish  of  Lambeth,  by  an  in- 
diflerent  curate,  who  shulFled  through  the  service 
at  railroad  speed,  and  with  far  less  reverence  for 
the  solemn  rite  than  he  would  have  displayed  had 
he  known  that  the  pale-fared  girl  kneeling  be- 
fore the  altar-rails  was  undisputed  mistress  of 
eleven  thousand  a  year.  Mrs.  Pimpernel,  the 
pew-opener,  and  the  rrgistrar,  who  was  in  wait- 
ing in  the  vestry,  and  was  beguiled  thence  to  give 
away  liie  hriSfe,  were  the  only  witnesses  to  thia 
strange  wedding.  It  seemed  a  dreary  ceremonial 
to  Mrs.  Pimpernel,  who  had  beci  married  at  the 
same  church  five  and  twenty  years  beloie,  in  a 
cinnamon-satin  spencer,  and  a  coal-scuttle  bonnet, 
and  with  a  young  person  in  the  drc8«-making  line 
in  attendance  upon  her  as  bridcmaid. 

It  iraf  rather  a  dreary  wedding,  no  doubt.  The 
drizzling  rain  dripped  ceaselessly  in  the  street 
without,  ani  there  was  a  smell  of  damp  plaster 
in  the  great  empty  church.  The  melancholy 
street-cries  sounded  dismally  from  the  outer 
world,  while  the  curali-  was  hurrying  through 
those  portentous  words  which  were  to  unite  Ed- 
ward Arundel  and  Mary  Marchmont  until  the 
final  dav  of  earthly  separation.  The  girl  clnnf 
shivering  to  her  lover,  her  husband  now,  as  they 
went  into  the  vestry  to  sign  their  namee  in  the 
marriage-register.  Throughout  the  service  the 
bad  expected  to  hoar  i  footitep  io  Uie  tisle  !>•• 


t6  JOHN   MARCH  MONT '3  LEGACY. 

hind  her,  and  Olivia  Marchpiont's  cruel  voice'  ' //  you  ever  go  back  there!'  cried  Edward, 
crying  out  to  forbid  the  marriage.  'Why,  Polly,  my  dear,  Marchmont  Towers   is 

*  I  am  your  wife,  now,  •Edward,  am  I  not?' j  your  own  house.  My  cousin  Oiiviais  only  there 
she  said,  when  she  had  signed  her  name  in  the  upon  sufferance,  and  her  own  good  sense  will 
register.  '  tell  her  she  has  no  right  to  remain  there  when 

'  Yes,  my  darling,  forever  and  forever.'  ^  she   ceases   to   be  your- friend  and   protectress^ 

'And  nothing  can  part  us  now.''  '  She.is  a  proud  woman,  and  her  pride  will  surely 

'  Nothing  butdeath,  my  dear.'  "  j  never  sufier  her  to  remain  where  she  must  feel 

In  the  exuberance  of  his  spirits,  Edward  Ariin-  /  she  can  be  no  longer  welcome. ' 
del  spoke  of  the  King  of  Terrors  as  if  he  had/     The  young  wife's  face  turned  white  with  terror 
been  a  mere  nobody,  whose  power  to  change  orj'at  her  husband's  words. 

mar  the  fortunes  of  mankind  was  so  trifling  as  to  i  '  But  I  could  never  ask  her  to  go,  Edward,'  she 
be  scarcely  worth  mentioning.  <'said.     'I  wouldn't   turn  her  out  for  the  world. 

The  vehicle  in  waiting  to  carry  the  mistress  of /She  may  stay  there  forever  if  she  likes.  I  never 
Marchmont  Towers  upon  the  first  stage  of  her /have  cared  for  the  plac^  since  papa's  death;  and 
bridal  tour  was  nothing  better  than  a  hack  cab.  <  I  couldn't  go  back  while  she  is  there,  I'm  so  fright- 
The  driver's  garments  exhaled  stale  tobacco- <ened  of  her,  Edward,  I'm  so  frightened  of  her.' 
smoke  in  the  moist  atmosphere,  and  in  lieu  of  the  ^  The  vague  apprehension  burst  forth  in  this 
flowers  which  are  wont  tofbestrew  the  bridal  /  childish  cry.  Edward  Arundel  clasped  his  wife 
pathway  of  an  heiress,  Miss  Marchmont  trod  ';  to  his  breast,  and  bent  over  her,  kissing  her  pale 
upon  damp  and  moulgly  straw.  But  she  was  ^  forehead,  and  murmuring  soothing  words,  as  he, 
happy — happy,  with  a  fearful  apprehension  that  <  might  have  done  to  a  child, 
her  happiness  could  not  be  real — a  vague  terror  /  'My  dear,  my  dear,'  he  said,  'my  darling 
of  Olivia's,  power  to  torture  and  oppress  her,  /  iVrary,  this  will  never  do;  my  own  love,  this  is  so 
which  even   the  presence  of  her  lover-husband  <  very  foolish.' 

could  not  altogether  drive  away.  She  kissed^  '  I  know,  I  know,  Edward;  but  I  can't  help  it, 
Mrs.  Pimpernel,  who  stood  upon  the  edge  of  the  j  I  can't,  indeed;  1  was  fjightened  of  her  long  ago; 
pavement,  crying  bitterly,  with  the  slippery -;  frightened  of  her  even  the  first  day  I  saw  her, 
white  lining  of  the  new  silk  dress  which  Edward  -  'he  day  you  took  me  to  the  Rectory;  1  was  fright- 
Arundel  had  given  her  for  the  wedding  gathered  /  ened  of  her  when  papa  first  told  me  he  meant  to 
tightly  round  her.  ;;  marry  her;  and  I  am  frightened  of  her  now;  even 

'  God  bless  you,  my  dear!'  cried  the  honesty  now  that  I'm  your  wife,  Edward,  I'm  frightened 
dealer  in  frayed  satins  and  tumbled  gauzes;  '  1  ^of  her  still.' 

couldn't  take  this  more  to  heart  if  you  was  my  j  Captain  Arundel  kissed  away  the  tears  that 
own  Eliza  Jane  going  away  with  the  young  man  I  trembled  on  his  wife's  eyelids;  but  she  had 
as  she  was  to  have  married,  and  as  is  now  a  ^scarcely  grown  quite  composed  even  when  the 
widower  with  five  children,  two  in  arms,  and  the  ;;  cab  stopped  at  the  Nine-Elms  railway  station, 
youngest  brought  up  by  hand.  God  bless  your  ^  It  was  only  when  she  was  seated  in  the  carriage 
pretty  face,  my  dear;  and  oh,  pray  take  care  of  ^  with  her  husband,  and  the  rain  cleared  away  as 
her.  Captain  Arundel,  for  she's  a  tender  flower, )  they  advanced  farther  into  the  heart  of  the  pretty 
Sir,  and  truly  needs  your  care.  And  it's  but  a  <  pastoral  country,  that  the  bride's  sense  of  happi- 
trifle,  my  own^weet  young  missey,  for  the  accep- ^ness  and  safety  in  her  husband 's'protection  re- 
tance  of  such  as  you,  but  it's  given  from  a  full  j  turned  to  her.  But  by  that  time  she  wlas  able  to 
heart,  and  given  humbly.'  ;; smile  in  his  face,  and  to  look  forward  with  de- 

The  latter  part  of  Mrs.  Pimpernel's  speech  ;!  light  to  a  brief  sojourn  in  that  pretty  Hampshire 
bore  relation  to  a  hard  newspaper  parcel,  which  ;!  village  which  Edward  had  chosen  for  the  scene 
she  dropped   into    Mary's   lap.      Mrs.   Arundel ;!  of  his  honey-moon. 

opened  the  parcel  presently,  when  she  had  kissed  ^  '  Only  a  few  days; of  quiet  happiness,  Polly,' 
her  humble  friend  for  the  last  time  and  the  cab;! he  said;  '  a  few  days  of  utter  forgetfulness  of  all 
was  driving  toward  Nine  Elms,  and  found  that  '^tlie  world  except  you,  and  then  I  must  be  a  man 
Mrs.  Pimpernel's  wedding  gift  was  a  Scotch^  of  business  again,  and  write  to  your  step-mother, 
shepherdess  in  china,  with  a  great  deal  of  gilji-^  ind  my  father  and  mother,  and  Messrs.  Paulette 
ing  about  her  tartan  garments,  very  red  legs,  a;!  and  Mathewson,  and  all  the  people  who  ought  to 
hat  and  feathers,  and  a  curly  sheep.  Edward ;!  know  of  our  marriage.' 
put  this  article  of  viftu  very  carefully  away  in  his ', 

carpet-bag;  for  his  bride  would  not  have  thepres-<  ^•■* 

ent  treated  w<th  any  show  of  disrespect.  ^  . 

'  How  good  of  her  to  give  it  me!'  Mary  said;i  '  CHAPTER  XVII. 

'  it  used  to  stand  upon  the  back-parlor  chimney-',  , 

piece  when  I  was  a  little  girl;  and  I  was  so  fond '  ^^^^  ^  sister. 

of  it.  Ofcoursft  I  am  not  fond  of  Scotch  shep-J  Omvia  Marchmont  shut  herself  once  more  in 
herdesses  now,  you  know,  dear;  but  how  should  ^her  desolate  chiimber,  making  no  effort-  to  find 
Mrs.  Pimpe'rnel  know  that.'  She  thought  it Uhe  runaway  mistress  of  the  Towers;  indifferent 
would  please  me  to  have  this  one.'  <as  to  what  the  ^Innderous  tongues  of  h^r  neigh- 

*  And  you'll  put  it  in  the  western  drawing- '>  bors  might  say  of  her;  hardened,  callous,  des- 
room  at  the  Towers,  won't  you  Polly?'  Captain  J  perate.  '„ 

Arundel  asked,  laughing.  ',     To  her  father,  and  to  anyone  else"  who  ques- 

•I  won't  put  it  any  where  to  be  made  fun  of.;  tioned  her  about  Mary's  absence— for  the  story 
Sir,"  the  young  bride  answered,  with  some  touch  ;  of  the  girl's  flight  was  soon  whispered  abroad, 
of  wifely  dignity;  '  but  I'll  take  care  of  it,  and  j  the  servants  at  the  Towers  having  received  no 
never  have  it  broken  or  destroyed;  and  Mrs.  f  injunctions  to  keep  the  matter  secret — Mrs. 
Pimpernel  shall  see  it  when  she  comes  to  the ;  Marchmont  replied  with  such  an  air  of  cold  and 
Towers— if  I  ever  go  back  there,'  she  added,  with  (determined  reserve  as  kept  the  questioners  at  bay 
&  luddea  change  of  manner.  ]  cyer  afterward. 


JOHN  MARCHMONT'd  LEGACY.  67 

So  tlie  Kemberling  people,  and  the  Swamping-/  her  despair  this,  woman  had  grown  to  doubt  if 
ton  people,  and  all  the  country  gentry  within  i  either  death  or  madness  could  bring  her  oblivioli 
reach  of  Marchmont  Towers,  had  a  mystery  and  ;of  her  anguish.  She  doubted  the  quiet  of  the 
a  scandal  provided  for  them,  which  afibrded  ;  grave,  and  half  believed  that  the  torture  of  jeal- 
ample  scope  for  repeated  discussion,  and  consid-j  ous  rage  and  slighted  love  might  mingle  even 
erably  relieved  the  dull  monotony  of  their  lives,  j  with  that  siient  rest,  haunting  her  in  her  coffin, 
But  there  were  some  questioners  whom  Mrs.  j  shutting  her  out  of  heaven,  and  following  her 
Marchmont  found  it  rather  diflicult  to  keep  at  a  i  into  a  darker  world,  there  to  be  her  torment  ever- 
distancc;  there  were  some  intruders  who  dared  {  lastingly.  There  were  times  when  she  thought 
to  force  themselves  upon  the  gloomy  woman's  madness  must  mean  forgetfulness;  but  there  were 
solitude,  and  who  would  not  understand  that  other  moments  when  she  shuddered,  horror- 
their  presence  was  hateful,  and  their  society  ab-  stricken,  at  the  thought  that,  in  the  Meandering 
horrent  to  her.  brain  of  a  mad  woman,  the  image  of  that  grief 

These  people  were  a  surgeon  and  his  wife,  who   which  had  caused  the  shipwreck  of  her  senses 

•  had  newly  settled  at  Kemberling;  thcf  best  prac-  might  still  hold  its  place,  distorted  and  exagger- 
tice  in  the  village  falling  into  the  market  hyated— a  gigantic  unreality,  ten  thousand  times 
reason   of   the  death   of   a   steady-going,  gray-   more  terrible  than  the  truth.     Remembering  the 

headed  old  practitioner,  who  for  many  years  had    dreams  which  disturbed  her  broken  sleep those 

shared  with  one  opponent  the  responsibility  of :  dreams  whicn,  in  their  feverish  horror,  were  little 
watching  over  the  health  of  the  Lincolnshire  vil-  better  than  intervals  of  delirium— it  is  scarcely 
lage.  strange  ff  Olivia  Marchmont  thought  thus. 

it  was  only  a  week  after  Mary  Marchmonl's  She  had  not  succumbed  without  many  struggles 
flight  when  these  unwelcome  guesJts  first  came  to   to  her  Sin  and  despair.     Again  and  again  she  had 

the  Towers.  abandoned  herself  to  the  devils  at  watch  to  dc- 

Olivia  sat  alone  in  her  dead  husband's  study — ,  stroy  her;  and  again  and  again  she  had  tried  to 

the  same  room  in  which  she  had  sat  upon  the  ,  extricate   her  soul  from  their  dreadful   power; 

morning  of  John   Marchinont's  fun«iral — a  dark  :  but  her  most  passionate  endeavors  wei'ein  vain! 

•  and  gloomy  chamber,  wainscoted  wfth  blackened  Perhaps  it  was  that  she  did  not  strive  aright;  it 
oak,  and  lighted  only  by  a  massive  stone-framed  was  for  this  reason,  surely,  that  she  failed  so  ut- 
Tudor  window  looking  out  into  the  quadrangle,  terly  to  arise  superior  to  her  despair;  for  other- 
and  overshadowed  by  that  cloistered  colonnade  wise  that  terrible  belief  attributed  to  the  Calvin- 
beneath  whose  shelter  Edward  and  Mary  had  ists,  that  some  souls  are  fore-doomed  lo  damna- 
walked  upon  the  morning  of  the  girl's  llight.  tion,  would  be  exemplified  by  this  woman's  ex- 
This  wainscoted  study  was  an  apartment  wiiich  perience.  She  could  not  forget.  She  could  not 
most  women,  having  all  the  rooms  in  Marchmont  put  awaj-  the  vengeful  hatred  that  raged  like  an 
Towers  at  their  disposal,  would  have  been  likely  all-devouring  fire  in  her  breast,  and  she  cried,  in 
to  avoid;  but  the  gloom  of  the  chamber  harrhon-  her  agony,  '  There  is  no  cure  for  this  disease.' 
ized  with  that  horrible  gloom  which  had  taken  1  think  her  mistake  was  in  this,  that  she  did  not 
possession  of  Olivia's  soul,  and  the  widow  turned  go  to  the  right  physician.  She  practiced  quackiry 
from  the  sunnywesfern  front,  as  she  turned  from  with  her  soul  as  some  people  do  with  their  bodies; 
all  the  sunlighrand  gladness  in  the  universe,  to  trying  her  own  remedies  rather  than  the  simple 
con>e  here,  where  the  summer  radiance  rarely  prescriptions  of  the  Divine  Healer  of  all  woes, 
crept  through  the  diamond-panes  of  the  window,  Self-reliant,  and  scornful  of  the  weakness  against 
where  the  shadow  of  tHe  cloister  shut  out  the  which  her  pride  revolted,  she  trusted  to  her  intel- 
glory  of' the  bine  sky.  lect  and  her  will  to  lift  her  out  of  the  moral  slough 

She  was  sitting  in  this  room — sitting  near  the  into  which  her  soul  had  gone  down.  She  said: 
«pen  window  in  a  high-backed  chair  oP  carved  '  I  am  not  a  woman  to  go  mad  for  the  love  of  a 
and  polished  oak,  with  her  head  resting  against  boyish  face;  I  am  not' a  woman  to  die  for  a  fool- 
thc  angle  of  the  embayed  window,  and  her  hand-  ish  fancy  that  the  veriest  school-girl  might  be 
-■some  profile  thrown  into  sharp  relief  by  the  dark  ashamed  to  confess  to  her  companion.  I  am  not 
green  cloth  curtain,  hanging  in  straight  folds  a  woman  to  do  this,  and  I  tci/i  cure  myself  of  my 
from  the  low  ceiling  to  the  ground,  and  making    folly.' 

a  sombre  back-ground  to  the  widow's  figure.  Mrs.  Marchmont  made  an  effort  to  take  up  her 
Mrs.  Marchmont  had  put  away  all  theftiiserablo  old  life,  with  its  dull  round  of  ceaseless  duty,  its  • 
gewgaws  and  vanities  which  she  had  ordered  perpetual  self-denial.  If  she  had  been  a  Roman 
from  London  in  a  sudden  excess  of  folly  or  ca-'i  Catholic  she  would  have  gone  to  the  nearest  con- 
price,  and  had  reassumed  her  mourning-robes  of ,  vent,  and  prayed  to  be  permitted  to  take  such 
lustreless  black.  She  had  a  book  in  her  hand —  vows  as  might  soonest  set  a  barrier  between  her- 
some  new  and  popular  fiction,  which  all  Lincoln-  self  and  the  world;  she  would  have  spent  the  long, 
shire  was  eap;er  to  read;  hut  although  her  eyes  weary  days  in  perpetual  and  secret  prayer;  she 
were  fixed  upon  tho- pages  before  her,  and  her  would  have  worn  deeper  indentations  upon  the 
hand  mechanically  turned  over  leaf  after  leaf  at  stones  already  hollowed  by  faithful  knees.  As  it 
i-egular  intervals  of  time,  the  fashionable  romance  was,  slje  made  a  routine  of  penance  for  herself, 
was  only  a  weary  repetition  of  phrases,  a  dull  after  her  own  fashion:  going  long  distances  on 
current  of  words,  always  intermingled  with  the  foot  ttfTisit  her  poor,  when  she  might  have  ridden 
iraagjes  of  Edward  Arundel  and  Mary  Marchmont,  in  her  carriage;  courting  exposure  to  rain  and 
Avhich  arose  out  of  every  page  to  mock  the  hope-'  foul  weather;  wearing  herself  out  with  unncces- 
lc«s  reader.  I  sary  fatigue,  and  returning  foot-sore  to  her  dcso- 

Olivia  flung  the  hook  away  from  her,  at  last,;  late  home,  to  fall  fainting  into  the  strong  arms  of 
with  a  smothered  cry  of  rage.  i  her  grim  attendant  Barbara. 

•Is  there  no  cure  for  this  disease?'  she  mut-|  But  this  self-appointed  penance  could  not  shut 
ipred.  •  *  Is  there  no  relief  except  madness  or!  Edward  Arundel  and  M.ary  Marchmont  from  the 
death.-'  .  {  widow's  mind.     Walking  through  a  fiery  furnacf 

But  in  the  infidelity  which  had  arisen  out  of- their* images  would  have  haunted  her  still,  TJTid 


fi^'i 


JOHN  MARCHMONT'S  LEGACT. 


The        Barbara  Simmons  looked  at  her  mistress's  face. 


and  palpable  even  in  the  agony  of  death. 

fatigue  of  the  long,  weary  walks  made  Mrs.  .  Anxiety  and  sadness  dimly  showed  themselves  in 
Mtrchmont  wan  and  pale;  the  exposure  to  storm  the  stolid  countenance  of  the  lady's-maid.  A 
«nd  rain  brought  on  a  tiresome  hacking  cough, !  close  observer,  penetrating  below  that  aspect  of 
which  worried  her  by  day  and  disturbed  her  fitful  '  wooden  solemnity  which  was  Barbara's  normal 
alumbers  by  night.  No  good  whatever  seemed  to  ;  expression,  might  have  discovered  a  secret:  the 
eome  of  her  endeavors;  and  the  devils  who  re- ;  quiet  waiting  woman  loved  her  mistress  with  a 
joiced  at  her  weakness  and  her  failure  claimed  j  jealous  and  watchful  affection,  that  took  heed> of 
h»r  as  their  own .    They  claimed  her  as  their  own ;;  every  change  in  its  object. 

and  they  were  not  without  terrestrial  agents,  ;  Mrs.  Marchmont  examined  the  two  cards, 
working  patiently  in  their  service,  and  ready  to  ;  which  bore  the  names  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Weston, 
help  in  securing  their  bargain.  ;  Kemberling.     On  the   back  of  the   lady's   caid 

The  great  clock  in  the  quadrangle  had  struck  j  these  words  were  written  in  pencil: 
the  half  hour  after  three;  the  atmosphere  of  the  ,      *  Will  Mrs.  Marchmont  be  so  good  as  to  see 
August  afternoon  was  sultry  and  oppressive.   Mrs.  j  Livinia  W*ston,  Paul  Marchmont's  younger  sister,  • 
Marchmont  had  clos«d  her  eyes  after  flinging  aside  |  and  a  connection  of  Mrs.  M.'sr' 
her  book,  and  had  fallen  into  a  doze:  her  nights  ,      Olivia  shrugged  her  shoulders  as   she   threw 
were  broken  and  wakeful,  and  the  hot  stillness  of   down  the  card. 

the  day  had  mad«  her  drowsy.  •  )    .' Paul  Marchmont!  Lavinia  Weston!' she  mut- 

She   was  aroused   from   this   half-slumber  by  ;  tered;  '  yes,  I  remember  he  said  something  about 
Barbara  Simmons,  who  came  into  the  r«om  car- '  a  sister  married  to  a  surgeon  at  Stanfield.     Let 
rying  two  cards  upon  a  salver— ^the  same   old- i  these  people  come  to  me,  Barbara.' 
fashioned   and   emblazoned   salver    upon   which  /     The  waiting-woman  looked  doubtfully  at  her 
Paul  Marchmont's  card  had  been  brought  to  the  I  mistress. 

widow  nearly  three  years  before.  The  Abigail  |  'You'll  maybe  smooth  your  hair  and  freshen 
stood  half-way  between  the  door  and  the  window  ;  yourself  up  a  bit,  before  you  see  the  folks,  Miss 
by  which  the  widow  sat,  looking  at  her  mistress's  ;  Livy,'  she  said,  in  a  tone,  of  mingled  suggestion 
face  with  a  glance  of  sharp  scrutiny.  )  and  entreaty.     '  Ye've  had  a  deal  of  worry  lately, 

•She's  changed  since  he  came  back,  and ';  and  it's  made  ye  look  a  little  fagged  and  haggard- 
changed  again  since  he  went  away,'  the  woman  I  like.  I'd  not  like  the  Kemberling  folks  to  say  as 
thought;  'just  as  she  always  changed  at  the  Rec- )  you  was  ill.' 

tory  at  his  coming  and  going.  Why  didn't  he  Mrs.  Marchmont  turned  fiercely  upon  the  Abi- 
take  to  her,  i  wonder.-     He  might  have  known  Jgail. 

her  fancy  for  him,  if  he'd  had  eyes  to  watch  her  \  'Let  me  alone!'  she  cried.  '  What  is  it  to  you, 
face,  or  ears  to  listen  to  her  voice.  She's  hand- ;  or  to  any  one,  how  I  look  .'  What  good  have  my 
somer  tjian  the  other  one,  and  cleaverer  in  book- ;  looks  done  me  that  [  should  worry  myself  about 
learning;  but  she  keeps  'em  off— she  seems  allers  ;  them?'  she  added  under  her  breath.  'Show 
to  keep  'em  off.'  ^  these  people  in  here,  if  they  want  to  see  me.' 

Lthink  Olivia  Marchmont  would  have  torn  the  'They've  been  shown  into  the  western  draw- 
T«ry  heart  out  of  this  waiting-woman's  breast  ;  ing-room,  ma'am — Richardson  took 'em  in  there.' 
had  she  known  the  thoughts  that  held  a  place  in  ;  Barbara  Simmons  fought  hard  ;for  the^rcscr- 
it;  had  she  known  that  the  servant  who  attended  \  vation  of  appearances.  She  wanted  the  Rector's 
upon  her,  and  took  wages  from  her,  dared  to  ■  daughter  to  receive  these  strange  people,  who  had 
pluck  out  her  secret,  and  to  speculate  upon  her  dared  to  intrude  upon  her,  in  a.  manner  befitting 
suffering.  '  the  dignity  of  John  Marchmont's  widow.     She 

The  widow  awoke  suddenly,  and  looked  up  glanced  furtively  at  the  disorder  of  the  gloomy 
with  an  impatient  frown.  She  had  not  been  !  chamber.  Books  and  papers  were  scattered  herj 
awakened  by  the  opening  of  the  door,  but  by  'and  there;  the  hearth  and  low  fender  were  lit- 
that  unpleasant  sensation  which  almost  always  I  tered  with  heaps  of  torn  letters — for  Olivia  March- 
reveals  the  presence  of  a  stranger  to  a  sleeper  of  '■  mont  had  no  tenderness  for  the  memorials  of  the  ^ 
nervous  temperament.  ;  past,  and  indeed  took  a  fierce  delight  in  sweeping 

'What  is  it,  Barbara.''  she  asked;  and  then,  as  i  away  the  unsanctified  records  of  her  joyless, 
her  eyes'rested  on  the  cards,  she  added,  angrily,  [  loveless  life.  The  high-backed  oaken  chairs  had 
'Haven't  I  told  you  that  I  would  not  see  any  !  been  pushpd  out  of  their  places;  the  green-cloth 
callers  to-day  ?  I  am  worn  out  with  my  cough,  '  cover  haa  been  drawn  half  off  the  massive  table, 
and  feel  too  ill  to  see  any  one.'  and  hung  in  trailing  folds  upon  the  ground.     A 

'Yes,  Miss  Livy,'  the  woman  answered— she  'book  flung  here,  a  shawl  there,  a  handkerchief 
called  her  mistress  by  this  name  still,  now  and  *  in  another  place;  an  open  secretaire,  with  scat- 
then,  bo  familiar  had  it  grown  to  her  during  the  J  tered  documents  and  uncovered  ink-stand,  littered 
childhood  and  youth  of  the  Rector's  daughter — •;  the  room,  and  bore  mute  witness  of  the  restless- 
•  I  didn't  forget  that.  Miss  Livy.  I  told  Richard-  ne.ss  of  its  occupant.  It  needed  no  very  subtle 
son  you  was  not  to  be  disturbed.  But  the  lady  |  psychologist  to  read  aright  those  separat*  tokens 
and  gentleman  said  if  you  saw  what  was  wrote  J  of  a  (disordered  mind;  of  a  weary  spirit,  which 
upon  the  back  of  one  of  the  cards  you'd  be  sure  had  sought  distraction  in  a  dozen  occupations, 
to  make  an  exception  in  their  favor.  I  think  that  and  had  found  relief  in  none.  It  was  some  vague 
was  what  the  lady  said.  She's  a  middle-aged  sense  of  this  fact  that  caused  Barbara  Simmons's 
lady,  Tery  talkative  and  pleasant-mannered,'  anxiety.  She  wished  to  keep  strangers  out  of 
added  th«  grim  Barbara,  in  nowise  relaxing  the  this  room,  in  which  her  mistiess — wan,  haggard, 
stolid  gravity  of  her  own  manner  as  she  spoke.  |  and  weary-looking — revealed  her  secret  by  so 
Olivia  snatched  the  cards  from  the  salver.  |  many  signs  and  tokens.     But  before  Olivia  could 

'  Why  do  people  worry  me  so?'  she  cried,  im-|  make  any  answer  to  her  servant's  suggestion,  the 
patiently.  '  Am  1  not  to  be  allowed  even  five  |  door,  which  Barbara  had  left  ajar,  was  pushed 
minutes' sleep  without  being  broken  iQ  upon  by  open  by  a  very  gentle  hand,  and  a  sweet  Toice 
some  intruder  or  other?'  \  said,  in  cheery,  chirping  accents, 

f 


JOHN  MARCHMUNT'S  LtOACt. 


CfJ 


'I  am  sure  I  may  come  in;  may  I  not,  Mrs.  ' 
Marchmont?  The  impression  my  brother  Paul's  i 
description  gave  me  of  you  is  such  a  very  pleasant  ] 
one  that  I  venture  to  intrude  uninvited,  almost ; 
forbidden,  perhaps.' 

{The  voice  and  manner  of  the  speaker  was  so  ] 
airy  and  self-possessed,  there  was  such  a  world, 
of  cheerfulness  and  amiability  in  every  tone,  that, ' 
as  Olivia  Marchmont  rose  from  her  chair,  she  put  j 
her  htfnd  to  her  head,  dazed  and  confounded,  as  \ 
if  by  the  too  boisterous  caroling  of  some  raged  j 
bird.     What  did  they  mean,  these  accents  of  glad- ; 
ness,  these   clear  and   untroubled   tones,  which  \ 
sounded  shrill  and  almost  discordant  in  the  de- 
spairing woman's  weary  ears?     She  stood,  pale 
and  worn,  the  very  pictureof  all  gloom  and  misery, 
staring  hopelessly  at  her  visitor;  too  much  aban- 
doned to  her  grief  to  remember,  in  that  first  mo- 
ment, the   stern   demands  of  pride.     She  stood  ; 
still;  revealing,  by  her  look,  her  attitude,  her, 
silence,  her  abstraction,  a  whole  history  to  the 
watchful  eyes  that  were  looking  at  her.  ; 

Mrs.  Weston  lingered  on  the  threshold  of  the  i 
chamber  in  a  petty,  half-fluttering  manner;  which 
was  charmingly  expressive  of  a  struggle  between 
a   modest    poor-relation-like    diflidence    and    an 
earnest  desire  to  rush   into  Olivia's  arms.     The, 
surgeon's  wife  was  a  delicate-looking  little  wo-, 
man,  with  features  that  seemed  a  miniature  and 
feminine  reproduction  of  her  brother  Paul's,  and  : 
with  very  light  hair — hair  so  light  and  pale  that, 
had  it  turned  as  white  as  the  artist's  in  a  single! 
night,  very  few  people  wouJd  have  been  likely  to 
take  heed  of  the  change.     Lavinia  Weston  was  : 
eminently  what  is  generally  called  a  lady-like  wo- 
man. She  always  conducted  herself  in  that  special ; 
and  particular  manner  which  was  exactly  fitted  to 
the  occasion.     She  adjusted  her  behavior  by  the 
nicest  shades  of  color  apd  hair-breadth  scale  of 
•  measurement.     She  had,  as^t  were,  made  for! 
herself  a  homeophatic  system  of  good  manners, 
and  could  mete  out  politeness  and  courtesy  in  the 
veriest  globules,  never  administering  either  too 
much  or  too  little.     To  her  husband  she  was  a 
treasure  beyond   allprice;  and   if  the  Lincoln-, 
shire  surgeon — who  was  a  fat,  solemn-faced  man,  • 
with  a  character  as  level  and  monotonous  as  the 
flats  and   fens  of  his   native  county — was  hen- 
pecked, the  feminine  autocrat  held  the  reins  of 
government  so  lightly  that  her  obedient  subject 
was  scarcely  aware  ho^'  very  irresponsible  his 
wife's  authority  had  become. 

As  Olivia  Marchmont  stood  Confronting  the 
timid,  hesitating  figure  of  the  intruder,  with  the 
width  of  the  chamber  between  them,  Lavinia 
Weston,  in  her  crisp  muslin-dress  and  scarf,  her 
neat  bonnet  and  bright  ribbons  and  primly-ad- 
justed gloves,  looked  something  like  an  adven- 
turous canary  who  had  a  mind  to  intnide  upon 
the  den  of  a  hungry  lioness.  The  difference, 
physical  and  moral,  between  the  timid  bird  and 
the  savage  forest-quern  could  he  scarcely  wider 
than  that  between  the  two  women. 

But  Olivia  did  not  stand  forever  embarrassed 
and  silent  in  her  visitor's  presence.  Her  pride 
came  to  her  rescue.  She  turned  sternly  upon  the 
polite  intruder. 

«  Walk  in,  if  you  please,  Mrs.  Weston,'  she 
said, 'and  sit  down.  I  was  denied  to  you  just 
now  because  I  have  been  ill,  and  have  ordered 
my  servants  to  deny  me  to  every  one.' 

'But,  my  dear  Mrs.  Marchmont,'  murmured 
Lavinia  Weston  in  soft,  almost  dove-like  accents, 
•  if  jou  have  been  ill,  is  not  your  illnes:  another 


reason  for  seeing  us,  rather  than  for  keeping  us 
away  from  you?  I  would  not,  of  course,  say  a 
word  which  could  in  any  way  be  calculated  to 
give  oft'ense  to  your  regular  medical  attendant-* 
you  have  a  regular  medical  attendant,  no  doubt; 
from  Swampington,  I  dare  say — but  a  doctor's 
wife  may  often  be  useful  when  a  doctor  is  him- 
self out  of  place.  There  are  little  nervous  ail- 
ments— depression  of  spirits,  mental  uneasiness — 
from  which  women,  and  sensitive  women,  suffer 
acutely,  and  which  perhaps  a  woman's  more  re- 
fined nature  alone  can  thoroughly  comprehend; 
You  are  not  looking  well,  my  dear  Mrs.  March- 
mont. I  left  my  husband  in  the  drawing-room, 
for  I  was  so  anxious  that  our  first  meeting  should 
take  place  without  witnesses.  Men  think  women 
sentimental  when  they  are  only  impulsive.  Wes- 
ton is  a  good  simple-hearted  creature;  but  he 
knows  as  much  about  3  woman's  mind  as  he  does 
of  an  .Kolian  harp.  When  the  strings  vibrate  he 
hears  the  low  plaintive  notes,  but  he  has  no  idea 
whence  the  melody  comes,  it  i^  thus  with  us, 
Mrs.  Marchmont.  These  medical  men  watch  us 
in  the  agonies  of  hysteria;  they  hear  our  sighs, 
they  see  our  tears,  and  in  their  awkwardness  and 
ignorance  they  prescribe  commonplace  remedies 
out  of  the  pharmacopoeia.  No,  dear  Mrs.  March- 
mont, you  do  not  look  well.  I  fear  it  is  the  mind, 
the  mind,  which  has  been  overstrained.  Is  it  not  * 
so?' 

Mrs.  Weston  put  her  head  on  one  side  as  she 
asked  this  question,  and  smiled  at  Olivia  with  an  , 
air  of  gentle  insinuation.  Jf  the  doctor's  wife 
wished  to  plumb  the  depths  of  the  widow's  gloomy 
soul  she  had  an  advantage  here;  for  Mrs.  March- 
mont was  thrown  off  her  guard  by  the  question, 
wliich  had  been  perhaps  asked  hap-#iazard,  or,  it 
may  be,  with  a  deeply-considered  design.  Olivia 
turned  fiercely  upon  the  polite  questioner. 
■  '  I  have  been  suffering  from  nothing  but  a  cold 
which  1  caught  the  other  day,'  she  said;  '  I  am 
not  subject  to  any  fine-ladylike  hysteria,  I  can  as- 
sure you,  Mrs.  Weston.' 

The  doctor's  wife  pursed  up  her  lips  into  a 
sympathetic  smile,  not  at  all  abashed  by  this  re- 
buff". She  had  seated  herself  in  one  of  the  high- 
backed  chairs,  with  her  muslin  skirt  spread  out 
about  her.  She  looked  a  living  exemplification 
of  all  that  is  neat  and  prim  and  commonplace,  in 
contrast  with  the  pale,  stern-faced  woman,  stand- 
ing rigid  and  defiant  in  her  long  black  robes. 

'  How  very  rhy-arming!'  exclaimed  Mrs.  Wes- 
ton. '  You  3.1^  really  not  nervous.  Dee-ar  me; 
and  from  what  my  brother  Paul  said,  1  should 
have  imagined  that  any  one  so  highly  organized 
must  be  rather  nervous.  But  I  really  fear  I  am 
impertinent,  and  that  I  presume  upon  our  very 
slight  relationship,  [t  ii  a  rclation^ip,  is  it  not, 
although  such  a  very  slight  one?' 

'  I  have  never  thougnf  of  the  subject,'  Mrs. 
Marchmont  replied,  coldly.  *I  suppose,  how- 
ever, that  my  marriage  with  your  brother's 
cousin — '    • 

•  And  my  co\isin — ' 

'  Made  a  kind  of  connection  between  us.  But 
Mr.  Marchmont  gav^me  to  understand  that  you 
lived  at  Stanfield,  Mrs.  Weston.' 

'Until  last  week,  nositively  until  last  week.' 
answered  the  surgeon  s  wife.  '  I  lee  you  take  very 
little  interest  in  village  gossip,  Mr«.  Marchmont, 
or  vou  would  have  licanl  of  the  cliimKe  at  Kem- 
berling.' 

•  What  chan}!;e 

'  My  husbind's  paniii#rc  ot  poor  old  Mr.  Diwn- 


10  JOHx\  MAILCIIMONT'S  LEGACY. 

field's  practice.     The  dear  old  man  died  a  month    bered  in  the  neighborhood  for  a  long  time.     Wc 
ago — you  heard  of  his  death,  of  course — and  Mr.    heard  of  this  sad  girl's  flight.' 
Weston  negotiated  the  purchai?e  with  Mrs.  Dawn-        Mrs.  Marchmont  looked  up  with  a  dark  frown, 
^eld   in  less   than   a   fortnight.     We  came  here  :  but  made  no  answer. 

early  last  week,  and  already  we  are  making  '  Was  she — it  really  is  such  a  very  painful 
friends  in  the  neighborhood.  How  strange  that  question,  that  I  almost  shrink  from — butwasft^iss 
you  shi3uld  not  have  heard  of  our  coming  !'  t  Marchmont  ^t  all — eccentric — a  little   mentally 

'I  do  not  see  much  society,'  Olivia  answered,  deficient?  Pray  pardon  me,  if  I  have  given  you 
indifferently,  '  and  I  hear  nothing  of  the  Kember-  ■  pain  by  such  a  question;  but — '  , 

ling  people.'  Olivia  started,  and  looked  sharply  at  her  fisitor. 

'Indeed  !'  cried  Mrs.  Weston;  '  and  we  hear  so  i  '  Mentally  deficient?  No  !'  she  said.  But  as  she 
much  of  Marchmont  Towers  at  Kemberling.'        'spoke  her  eyes   dilated,  her   pale   cheeks   grew 

She  looked  full  in  the  widow's  face  as  s^ie  i  paler,  her  upper  lip  quivered  with  a  faint  convul- 
spoke,  her  stereotyped  smile  subsiding  into  a  lofck  /sive  movement.  It  seemed  as  if  some  idea  pre- 
of  greedy  curiosity;  a  look  whose  intense  eager- 1  sented  itself  to  her  with  a  sudden  force  that  al- 
ness  could  not  be  concealed.  ;  most  took  away  her  breath. 

That  look,  and  tbe  tone  in  which  her  last  sen- ;  '  Ab<  mentally  deficient?'  repeated  Lavinia 
tence  had  been  spol^en,  said  as  plainly  as  the  Weston;  '  dee-ar  mel  It's  a  great  comfort  to 
plainest  words  could  have  done,  '  I  have  heard  of  hear  that.  Of  course  Paul  saw  very  little  of  his 
Mary  Marchmont's  flight.'  ■  cousin,  and  he  was  not,  therefore,  in  a  position  to 

Olivia  understood  this;  but  in  the  passionate' Judge— though  his  opinions,  however  rapidly  ar- 
depth  of  her  own  madness  she  had  no  power  to  i  i^'^ed  at,  are  generally  so  very  accurate— but  he 
fathom  the  meanings  or  the  motives  of  other  peo-;Ptave  me  to  understand  that  he  thought  Miss 
pie.  She  revolted  against  this  Mrs.  Weston,  and  '  Marchmont  appeared  a  little— just  a  little— weak 
disliked  her  because  the  woman  intruded  upon; '".her  intellect.  ]  am  very  glad  to  find  he  was 
her  in  her  desolation;  but  she  never  once  thought   m'stakeu. 

of  Lavinia  Weston's  interest  in  Mary's  move-:  Olivia  made  no  reply  to  this  speech.  She  had 
ments;  she  never  once  remembered  that  the  frail :  seated  herself  in  her  chair  by  the  window;  she 
life  of  that  orphan  girl  only  stood  between  this  :^ooked  straight  before  her  into  the  flagged  quad- 
woman's  brother  and  the  rich  heritage  of  March-:  rangle,  with  her  hands  lying  idle  in  her  lap.  It 
mont  Towers  '  seemed  as  if  she  were  actually  unconscious  of 

Blind  and  forgetful  of  every  thing  in  the  hide- '  her  visitor 's  presence,  or  as  if,  in  her  scornful 
ous  egotism  of  her  despair,  what  was  Olivia!  I^J'^^'-.^P^^'^f^d.'?  ",0^  even  care  to  aftect  any 
Marchmont  but  a  fitting  tool,  a  plastic  and  eas^y- :  '"^^^^^.^  .^"  that  vi-s.tor  s  conversation, 
moulded  instrument  in  the  h^nds  of  unscrupulous  >  ^^^'"•^J^^^'^"  '^^"™^?  ^«^'"  /°  ^J^^  ^f^'^^ 
people,  whose  hard  intellects  had  never  been  ;■  '  P^ay.  Mrs.  Marchmont,  do  no  think  me  in- 
beaten  into  confused  shapelessness  in  the  fiery  ;t™s've  or  impertment,  she  said,  pleadingly,  •  if  I 
f  jrnace  of  passion?  ..ask  you  to  favor  me  with  the  true  particular^  of 

„,    ^  ■        -■,    .    ,     p  n«^      \ir      1-        ..  -this  Sad  event.     lam  sur^  you  will  be  good  enough 

Mrs,  Weston  had  heard  of  Mary  Marchmont-e  ;  to  remember  that  nL>'  brother  Paul,  my  sister,  and 
flight;  but  she  had  heard  half  a  dozen  different,  n^ygeif  are  Mary  Marchmont's  nearest  relatives 
■  reports  of  that  event,  as  widely  diversified  in  ;  on  her  father's  side,  and  that  we  have,  therefore, 
their  details  as  if  half  a  dozen  heiresses  had  fled  some  right  to  feel  interested  in  her.' 
from  Marchmont  Towers.  Every  gossip  in  the  gy  this  very  polite  speech  Lavinia  Weston 
place  had  a  separate  story  as  to  the  circumstances  plainly  reminded  the  widow  of  the  insignificance 
which  had  led  to  the  girl  s  running  away  from  her ,  of  her  own  position  at  Marchmont  Towers.  In 
home.  The  accounts  vied  with  each  other  in  /  ^gr  ordinary  frame  of  mind  Olivia  would  have 
graphic  force  and  minute  elaboration;  the  con- .  resented  the  lady-like  slight;  but  to-day  she  neither 
versations  that  had  taken  place  between  Mary  heard  nor  heeded  it;  she  was  brooding  with  a  stu- 
and  her  step-mother,  between  Edward  Arundel,  pj^,  unreasonable  persistency  over  the  words 
and  Mrs.  Marchmont,  between  the  Rector  of  >  omental  deficiency,'  '  wflak  intellect.'  She  only 
Swampington  .and  nobody  in  particular,  would  roused  herself  by  a  great  effort  to  answer  Mrs. 
have  filled  a  volume,  as  related  by  the  gossips  ol  Weston's  questi!)n  when  that  lady  had  repeated  it 
Kemberling;  but  as  every  body  asiigned  a  ditt^er-    j^  yej-y  plain  words. 

ent  cause  for  the  terrible  misunderstanding  at  the  ,  j^an  tell  you  nothing  about  Miss  Marchmont's 
Towers,  and  a  different  direction  for  Mary  s  flight,' she  said,  coldly,  *  except  that  she  ciiose  to 
,  flight— and  as  the  railway  official  at  the  station, :  j-un  ^way  from  her  home,  1  found  reason  to  ob- 
who  could  hare  thrown  some  light  on  the  subject,  jgct  to  her  conduct  upon  the  night  of  the  ball; 
was  a  stern  and  moody  man,  w-ho  had  little  sym-  ^nd  the  next  nlorning  she  left  the  house,  assign- 
pathy  with  his  kind,  and  held  his  tongue  persist-:  i^g  no  reason— to  me,  at  any  rate— for  her  ab^ 
ently— it  was  not  easy  to  get  very  near  the  truth, !  surd  and  improper  behaviour."' 
Under  these  circumstances,  then,  Mrs.  Weston  ;  .  ghe  assigned  no  reason  to  yon,  my  dear  Mrs. 
determined  upon  seeking  information  at  the  foun-.;  Marchmont;  but  she  assigned  a  reason  to  some- 
tain-head,  and  approaching  the  cruel  step-mother,  >body,  I  infer,  from  what  you  say?' 
who,  according  to  some  of  the  reports,  had  «  Yes;  she  wrote  a  lette'r  to  my  cousin.  Captain 
stanxd  and  beaten  her  deadjiusband's  child.  Arundel.' 

'Yes,   dear   Mrs.    Marchmont,'  said    Lavinia       «  Telling  him  the  reason  of  her  departure?' 
V.^eston,  seeing  that   it  was  necessary  to  come       •  I  don't  know— I  forget.     The  letter  told  noth- 
direct  to  the  point  if  she  wished  to  wring  the;  ing  clearly;  it  was  wild  and  incoherent.' 
truth  from  Olivia;  'yes,  we  hear  of  eve^y  thing;     Mrs.  Weston  sighed;  a  long-drawn, desponding 
at  Kemberling;  and  1  need  scarcely  tell  you  that;  sigh. 

we  heard  of  the  sad  trouble  which  you  have  had ;  'Wild  and  incoherent!'  she  murmured,  in  a 
to  endure  since  your  b^l — the  ball  that  is  spoken  pensive  tone,  *  How  grieved  Paul  will  be  to  hear 
of  as  the  most  cby-arraing  cntcrtainincnt  rcmcm- '.  of  this !    He  took  such  an  interest  in  his  cousin—- 


JOFIN   MARCn.MONT'S   I,F,(M(;Y. 


71 


a  delicate  and  fragile-looking  young  creature,  he 
told  me.  Yes,  he  took  a  very  great  interest  in 
her,  Mrs.  Marchmont,  though  you  may  perhaps 
scarcely  believe  me  when  1  say  so.  He  kept 
himself  purposely  aloof  from  this  place;  his  sen- 
sitive nature  led  him  to  abstain  from  even  reveal 
ing  his  interest  in  Miss  Marchmont.  His  position, 
you  must  remember,  with  regard  to  this  poor  dear 
girl,  is  a  very  delicate — I  may  say  a  very  painful — 
one.' 

Olivia  remembered  nothing.  Thc*valuc  of  the 
Marchmont  estates;  the  sordid  worth  of  those 
wide-stretching  farms,  spreading  far  away  into 
Yorkshire;  the  pitiful,  closely-calculated  revenue, 
which  made  Mary  a  wealthy  heiress,  were  so  far 
from  the  dark  thoughts  of  this  woman's  desperate 
heart,  that  she  no  more  suspected  Mrs.  Weston  of 
any  mercenary  design  in  coming  to  th"e  Towers 
than  of  burglarious  intentions  with  regard  to  the 
silver  spoons  in  the  plate-room.  Slie  only  thought 
that  the  surgeon's  wife  was  a  tirescme  woman, 
against  whose  pertinacious  civility  her  angry 
spirit  chafed  and  rebelled,  until  she  was  almost 
driven  to  order  her  from  the  room. 

In  this  cruel  weariness  of  spirit  Mrs.  March- 
mont gave  a  short  impatient  sigh,  which  afforded 
a  suflicient  hint  to  such  an  accomplished  tactician 
as  her  visitor. 

,  '  1  know  I  have  tired  you,  my  dear  Mrs. 
Marchnn)nt,'  the  doctor's  wife  said,  rising  and 
arranging  her  muslin  scarf  as  she  spoke,  in  token 
of  her  immediate  departure;  '  I  am  so  sorry  to 
find  you  a  sufferer  from  that  nasty  hacking  cough; 
but  of  course  you  have  the  best  advice,  Mr.  Pool- 
ton  from  Swampington,  I  think  you  said:' — Olivia 
had  said  nothing  of  the  kind — 'and  I  trust  the 
warm  weather  will  prevent  the  cough  taking  any 
hold  of  your  chest.  If  I  might  venture  to  suggest 
Hannels — so  many  young  Women  quite  ridicule 
the  idea  of  flannels — but,  as  the  wife  of  a  humble 
provincial  practitioner.  I  have  learned  their  value. 
Good-by,  dear  Mrs.  Marchmont.  I  may  come 
again,  may  I  not,  now  that  the  ire  is  broken,  and 
wc  are  so  well  acquainted  with  each  other  ?  Good- 
by.' 

Oliviii  could  not  refuse  to  take  at  least  one  ol 
the  two  plump  and  tightly  gloved  hands  which 
were  held  out  to  her  with  an  air  of  frank  cordi- 
ality ;  but  the  widow 's  grasp  was  loose  and  nerve- 
less, and  inasmuch  as  two  consentient  parties  are 
required  to  the  shaking  of  hands,  as  well  as  to 
the  getting  up  of  a  quarrel,  the  salutation  was 
not  a  very  hearty  one. 

The  surgeon's  pony  must  have  been  weary  of 
standing  before  the  llight  of  shallow  steps  leadinp 
to  the  western  portico,  when  Mrs.  Weston  took 
her  seat  by  her  husband's  side  in  the  gig,  which 
liad  been  newly  painted  and  varnished  since  lh« 
worthy  couple's  Hcgira  from  Stanfield. 

The  surgeon  was  not  an  ambitious  man,  nor  a 
designing  man;  he  was  simply  stupid  and  lazy; 
la7y,  although,  in  spite  of  himself,  he  led  :in 
active  and  har<l»Uorking  life;  but  there  are  many 
square  men  whose  xide^  are  cruelly  tortured  by 
the  pressure  of  the  round  holes  into  which  thvy 
are  ill-advisedly  thrust,  and  if  otir  dp«tinie«  were 
meted  out  to  us  in  strict  accord:ince  with  our 
lempeVnmtints,  Mr.  Weston  should  have  been  a 
lotus-eater.  As  it  W3>.,  he  w:is  conieiit  to  drudge 
on,  mildly  complying  with  cverv  (Icire  of  hi.", 
wife;  doing  what  she  l(»ld  him,  bc^jiisc  it  was 
less  trouble  to  do  the  hardest  work  at  her  bidding 
than  to  ojipose  her.     k  would  have-brrn   surely 


business  of  Ih'©  murder  than  to  have  endured  my 
lady's  black  contemptuous  scowl,  and  the  bitter 
scorn  and  contumely  concentrated  in  those  four 
words,  '  Give  vie  the  daggers!' 

Mr.  JWcston  asked  one  or  two  commonplace 
questions  about  his  wife's  interview  with  John 
iMarchmont's  widow;  but  slow'ly  apprehending 
that  Lavinia  did  not  care  to  discuss  the  matter, 
he  rclap-icd  into  meek  silence,  and  devoted  all  his 
intellectual  powers  to  the  task  of  keeping  the 
pony  out  of  the  deeper  ruts  in  the  rugged  road  be- 
tween Marchmont  Towers  and  Kemberling  High 
Street.  ■      • 

'What  is  the  secret  of  that  woman's  life.'' 
thought  Lavinia  Westcfti  during  that  homeward 
drive;  •  has  she  ill-treated  the  girl,  or  is  she  plot- 
ting in  some  way  or  other  to  get  holdof^the  March- 
mont fortune?  '  Pshaw  !  that's  impossible.  And 
yet  she  may  be  making'a  purse,  somehow  or  other, 
out  of  the  estate.  Any  how,  there  is  bad  blood 
between  the  two  women.' 


CHAPTKR  XVIII. 


A  ITOI.EV  HONEY-MOOV. 


lets 


I  to  on  I 
painfu 


I  to  Macbctri  to  have  finished  thai  ugly 


The  village  to  which  Edward  Arundel  took  his 
bride  was  within  a  few  miles  of  Winchester. 
The  young  soldier  had  become  familiar  with  the 
place  in  his  early  boyhood,  when  he  had  gone  to 
spend  a  part  of  one  bright  mid-summer  holiday  at 
the  house  of  a  school-fellow;  and  had  ever  since 
cherished  a  friendly  remembrance  of  the  winding 
trout-streams,  the  rich  verdure  of  the  valleys,  anil 
the  sheltering  hills  that  shut  in  the  pleasant  little 
cluster  of  thatched  cottages,  the  pretty  white- 
walled  villas,  and  the  gray  old  church. 

But  to  Mary,  whose  experiences  of  town  and 
country  were  limited  to  the  dingy  purlieus  of  Oak- 
ley Street  and  the  fenny  flats  ot  Lincolnshire,  this 
Hampshire  village  seemed  a  rustic  paradise,  which 
neither  trouble  nor  sorrow  could  ever  approach. 
She  had  trembled  at  the  thought  of  Olivia's  com- 
ing in  Oakley  Street;  but  here  she  seemed  to  lose 
all  terror  of  •her  stern  step-mother — here,  shel- 
tered and  protected  by  her  young  husband's  love, 
she  fancied  that  she  might  live  her  life  out  happy 
and  secure. 

She  told  Edward  this  one  sunny  morning,  as 
they  sat  by  the  young  man's  favorite  trout-stream. 
Captain  Arundel's  fishing-tackle  lay  idle  on  the 
turf  at  his  side,  for  he  had  been  beguiled  into 
forgclfulness  of  a  ponderous  trout  he  had  been 
watching  and  finessing  with  for  ripward  of  an 
hour,  and  had  ffung  himself  at  full  length  upon 
the  mossy  margin  of  the  water,  with  his  un- 
covered head  lying  in  Mary's  lap. 

The  childish  bride  would  have  been  content  to 
sit  forever  thus  in  that  rural  solitude,  with  her 
fingers  twisted  in  her  husband's  chestnut  curls, 
and  her  soft  eyes  keeping  timid  watch  upon  his 
tiaridsorae  face— so  candid  and  unclouded  in  its 
careless  repose.  .  The  undulating  meodow-land 
lay  half-hidden  in  a  golden  haze,  only  broken 
nerc  and  there  by  the  glitter  o(  the  brighter  sun- 
light that  lit  up  the  rippling  water";  ol  the  wai.- 
dering  streams  that  iiiltTHCcltd  the  low  pasture^. 
Thr  massive  towers  <if  the  raihednil,  ifie  gray 
walls  of  St.  f'ross,  loomrd  dimly  in  tin-  distance; 
the  bubbling  plash  of  a  raill-stieam  sounded  like 
some  monotonous  lullaby  in  the  drufrsj  summer 
atmosphere.     .Mary    locked   fiom    the   faco   she 


7:J 


JOHN  MARCHMONT'S  LEGACY. 


loved  to  lUe  fair  landscape  al)OUt  li6r,  and  a  ten- '.  '  Well  poor  John  had  a  soil  of  a  prejudice 
der  solemnity  crept  into  her  mind,  a  reverent  •  agai At  the  man,  1  believe;  but  it  was  only  a  preju- 
love  and  admiration,  for  this  beautiful  earth,  |  dice,  for  he  freely  confessed  that  he  could  assign 
which  was  almost  akin  to  awe.  ';  no  reason  for  it.    But  whateTer  Mr.  Paul  Marcb- 

•  How  pretty  this  place  is,  Edward;'  sh|  said.  |  mont  may  be,  you  must  live  at  the  Towers,  Mary, 
'  1  had  no  idea  there  were  such  places  in  all  the  ;  and  be  Lady  Bountiful-in-chief  in  your  neighbor- 
wide  world.  Do  you  know,  1  think  1  would  I  hood,  and  look  after  your  property,  and  have  long 
rather  be  a  cottage-girl  here  than  an  heiress  in  |  interview*  with  Mr."  Gormby,  and  become  alto- 
Lincoinshire.  Edward,  if  1  ask  yoii  a  favor,  |  gether  a  woman  of  business;  «o  that  when  1  go 
will  you  grant  it?' •  ;  back  to  India— ' 

She  spoke  very   earnestly,   looking   down    at  j      Mary  intePrupted  him  with  a  little  cry: 
her  husband's  upturned  face;  but  Captain  Arun- ,      '  Go  back  to   India!'  she   exclaimed.     •  What 
del  only  laughed  at  her  question,  without  even  ,' do  you  mean,  Edward  ?' 

caring  to  lift  the  drowsy  eyelids  that  drooped)  'I  mean,  my  darling  that  my  business  in  life 
over  his  blue  eyes.  •  j  is  to  fight  for  my  Queen  and  country  and  not  to 

'  Well,  my  pet,  if  you  want  any  thing  short  j  sponge  upon  my  wife's  fortune.  You  don't  sup- 
of  the  moon,  I  suppose  your  devoted  husband  is  ;  pose  I'm  going  to  lay  down  my  sword  at  seven-aad- 
scarcely  likely  to  refuse  it.  Our  honey-moon  is  twenty  years  of  age,  and  retire  upon  my  pension? 
not  a  fortnight  old  yet,  Polly  dear;  you  wouldn't  i  No,  Polly;  you  remember  what  Lord  Nelson  said 
have*  me  turn  tyrant  quite  as  soon  as  this.  Speak  on  the  deck  of  the  Trafalgar.  That  saying  can 
out  Mrs.  Arundel,  and  assert  your  dignity  as  a  :  never  be  so  hackneyed  as  to  loseitsforee.  1  must 
British  matron.  What  is  the  favor  1  am  to  ;  do  my  duty,  Polly;  I  must  do  my  duty;  even  if 
grant?'  i  duty  and  love  pull  different  ways  and  I  have  to 

'I   want    you    to    live  here  always,   Edward  J  leave  my  darling  in  thes  service  of  my  covmtry.' 
darling,'  pleaded  the  girlish  voice.     '  Not  for  a  j      Mary  clasped  her  hands  in  despair,  and  looked 
fortnight  or  a  month,  but  for  ever  and  ever.     I  ',  piteously   at  her  lover-husband,   with  the  teari 
have  never  been  happy   at  Marchmont  Towers,    streaming  down  her  pale  cheeks. 
Papa  died  there,  you  know,  and  1  can  not   for-  j      *0h,  Edward,'  she  cried,  'how  cruel   you  are; 
get  that      "    ' 
place  sacred 
cred  like  pap 


led  there,  you  know,  ana  i  can  not  lor-  •  un,  hiU ward,  sne  cnea,  •  now  cruel  you  are; 
it.  Perhaps  that  ought  to  have  made  the  how  very,  very  cruel  you  are  to  me  !  What  is  the 
acred  to  me;  and  so  it  has;  but  it  is  sa- 1  use  of  my  fortune  if  you  won't  share  it  w^th  me — 
ke  papa's   tomb    in   Kemberling  Church,  j  if  you  won 't  take  it  all;  for  it  is  yours,  my  dearest; 


and  it  seems  like  profanation  to  be  happy  in  it, 
or  to  forget  my  dead  father  even  for  a  moment. 
Don't  let  us  go  back  there,  Edward.  Let  my 
step-mother  live  there  all  her  life.  It  would 
seem  selfish  and  cruel  to  turn  her  out  of  the 
house  she  has  so    long   been   mistress   of.      Mr. 


it  is  all  yours.  I  remember  the  words  in  the  Mar- 
riage Service,  '  with  all  my  goods  1  thee  endow.' 
I  have  given  you  Marchmont  Towers,  Edward; 
nobody  in  the  world  ca»  take  it  away  from  you. 
Vou  never,  never,  never  could  be  so  cruel  as  to 
leave  me.    I  know  how  brave  and  good  you  are, 


Gormby  will  go  on  collecting  the  rents,  you  j  and  I  am  proud  to  think  of  your  noble  courage, 
know,  and  can"  send  us  as  much  money  as  we  ;  and  all  the  brave  deeds  you  did  in  India.  But 
want;  and  we  can  take  that  pretty  house  we  ;  you  Aaue  fought  for  your  country,  Edward;  you 
saw  to  let  on  the  other  sideof  Milldale — the  house  I  have  done  your  duty.  Nobody  can  expect  more 
with  the  rookery,  and  the  dove-cots,  and  the  slo-  <  of  you;  nobody  shall  take  you  from  me.  Oh,  my 
ping  lawn  leading  down  to  the  water.  You  know  >;  darling,  my  husband,  you  promised  to  shelter  and 
you  don't  like  Lincolnshire,  Edward,  any  more  (  defend  me  while  our  lives  last!  ^  You  won't  leave 
than  1  do,  and  there's  scarcely  any  trout-fishing  {  me — you  won't  leave  me,  will  your' 
near  the  Towers.  Edward  Arundel  kissed  the  tears  away  from  his 

Captain  Arundel  opened  his   eyej,  and  lifted  |  wife's  pale  face,  and  drew    her  head  upon  his 
himself  out  of  his   reclining  position   before  he  ;  bosom, 
answered  his  wife.  •,      '  My  love,'  he  said  tenderly, '  you  can  not  tell 

'  My  own  precious  Polly,'  he  said,  smiling  ;  haw  much  pain  it  gives  me  to  hear  you  talk  like 
fondly  at  the  gentle  childish  face  turned  in  such  j  this.  What  can  I  do  ?  To  give  up  my  profession 
earnestness  toward  his  own;  '  my  runaway  little  ■  would  be  to  make  myself  next  kin  to  a  pauper, 
wife,  rich  people  have  their  duties  to  perform  as  ^  What  would  the  world  say  of  me,  Mary?  Think 
well  as  poor  people;  and  I  am  afraid  it  would  j  of  that.  This  runaway  marriage  would  be  a 
never  do  for  you  to  hide  in  this  out-of-the-way  ,  dreadful  dishonor  to  me  if  it  were  followed  by  a 
Hampshire  village,  and  play  absentee  from  stately  :■  life  of  lazy  dependence  on  my  wife's  fortune. 
Marchmont  and  all  its  dependencies.  I  love  that  \  Nobody  can  dare  to  slander  the  soldier  who  spends 
pretty,  infantine,  unworldly  spirit  of  yours,  my  j  the  brightest  years  of  his  life  in  the  service.of  his 
darling;  and  I  sometimes  wish  we  were  two  grown- }  country.  You  would  not  surely  have  me  be  less 
up  babes  in  the  wood,  and  could  wander  about ;  than  true  to  myself,  Mary  darling?  For  my 
gathering  wild  flcwers,  and  eating  blackberries  j  honor's  sake  I  must  leave  you.' 
and  hazel-nuts,  until  the  shades  of  evening  closed  I  •Oh,  no,  no,  no!'  cried  the  girl,  in  a  low 
in  and  the  friendly  robins  came  to  bury  us.  j  wailing  voice.  Unselfish  and  devoted  as  she  had 
Don't  fancy  I'm  tired  of  our  honey-moon,  Polly, )  been  in  every  other  crittis  of  her  young  life,  she 
or  that  1  care  for  Marchmont  Towers  any  more  ;  could  not  be  reasonable  or  self-denying  here;  she 
than  you  do;  but  I  fear  the  nort-rcsidence  plan  !  was  seized  with  despair  at  the  thought  of  parting 
would  never  answer.  The  world  would  call  myi  with  her  husband.  No,  not  even  for  his  honor's 
little  wife  eccentric,  if  she  ran  away  from  her  ;  sake  could  she  let  him  go.  Better  that  they  should 
grandeur;  and  Paul  Marchmont,  the  artist — of  \  both  die  now,  in  this  curly  noontide  of  their  hap- 
whom  your  poor  father  had  rather  a  bad  opinion,   piness. 

hy-lhe-way would  be   taking   out  a   statute   of  J      •  Edward,  EJward,' she  sobbed,  clinging  con- 
lunacy  against  you.  *    ,     »*        ■  -.1-:  — .--.--. ...u  V  .,..' 

'  Paul    Marchmont,'    repeated   Mary, 
papa  di«like  Mr.  Paul  Marchmont?' 


Did 


vulsively  about  the  young  mau's  neck,  'doo't  leave 
;  me;  don't  leave  me  !'  ^ 

•  Will  you  go  with  me  to%dia,  then,  Mary?' 


JOHN  MARCMMONT'S  LEGACY.  173 

She  lifted  her  head  suddenly,  and  looked  her  5  that  he  could  only  answer  it  by  imagining  the 
husband  in  the  face,  with  the  gladness  in  her  eyes  I  lowest  motive  for  the  widow's  bad  feeling.  '  She. 
shining  throii,;;Ii  lier  tears,  like  an  April  sun  J  envies  my  poor  little  girl  her  fortune  and  po»i- 
througli  a  watery  sky.  Uion,'  he  thoij^ht. 

'  1  would  go  to  .the  end  of  the  world  with  you,)  '  Hut  you  won't  leave  me  alone  with  my  stcp- 
my  own  darliug, 'she  said:  '  the  burning  sands  5  mother,  will  you,  Edwartl  ?' Marv  said,  recurring 
and  the  dreadful  jungles  would  have  no  terrors  |  to  her  old  prayer.  •  I  ara  not  afraid  of  her,  nor 
for  me  if  I  were  with  you,  Edward.'  iof  any  body  or  any  thine;  in  the  world,  while  you 

Captain  Arundel  smiled  at  her  earnestness.         i  are  with  me — how  should  1  bg.' — but  I  think,  if  I 

'1  won't  take  Vou  .into  the  jungle,  my  love,' he  ;  were  to  be  alone  with  her  again,  I  should  die. 
answei-ed,  playfully;  '  or,  if  1  do,  your  palkishalf '  She  would  speak  to  me  asain  as  she  spoke  upon 
be  well  guarded,  ami  all  ravenous  Fieasts  kept  at  a  /  the  niglit  of  the  ball,  and  her  bitter  taunts  Avo.uhl 
respect ftirf  distance  from  my  little  wife.  A  great  f  kill  mc.  [  could  not  bear  to  be  in  her  power 
many   ladies   go   to  India   with    their    husbands,  { again,  Edward.' 

Polly,  and  come  back  very  little  the  worse  for '^  'And  you  shall  not,  my  darling,' answered  the 
the  climate  or  the  voyage;  and  except  your 'young  man,  enfolding  the  slender,  trembling 
money,  there  is  no  reason  }  on  sliould  not  go  willi  riigure  in  his  strong  arms.  'My  own  childish 
rap.'  f  pet,  yo)i  shall  never  be  exposed  to  any  woman's 

'  Oh,  never  mind  my  money;  let  any  body  have  '  insolence  or  tyranny.  You  shall  be  sheltered  and 
that.'  »  protected,  and  hedged   in   on  every  side  by  your 

'Polly,'  cried  the  soldier  very  seriously,  '  we  >  liusband's  love.  And  when  I  go  to  Inrlia'you 
fnust  consult  Richard  Paulette  as  to  the  iiiture. /slialh  sail  with  me,  my  pearl.  Mary,  look  up 
I  don't  think  I  did  right  in  marrying  yoU  during  "^an:!  smile  at  me,  and  let's  hare  no  more  talk  of 
his  absence;  and  1  have  delayed  writing  to  him  ■  cruel  step-mothers.  How  strange  it  seems  to 
too  long,  Polly.  Those  .'otters  must  be  written  :i  me,  Polly  dear,  that  you  should  have  been  so 
this  afternoon.'  )  womanly  when  you  were  a  child,  and   yet  arc  so 

'  The  letter  to  Mr.  Paulette  and  to  your  father.'' '/  childlike  now  you  are  a  v.oman  !' 

'  Yes,  and  the  letter  to  my  cousin  Olivia.'  ;'      The    mistrei's  of   Marclmiont   Towers   looted 

Mary's  face  grew  sorrowful  again,  as  Captain  /doubtfully  at  her  husband,  as  if  she  feared  her 
Arundel  said  this.  :i  childi^hufss  miglit  be  displeasing  to  him. 

'Must  you  tell  my  step-mother  of  our  mar-;'  'You  don't  love  me  any  the  less  because  of 
riage  ;'  she  said.  '■  that,  do  you,  Edvrard  .•'  sheasked,  timidly. 

'Most  assuredly,  my  dear.  Why  should  we 'i  '  Because  of  what,  my  treasure.-' 
keep  her  in  ignorance  of  it.'  Your  father's  will  ^  '  P.ecause  I  am  so — diildisli .-' 
gave  her  the  privilege  of  advising  you,  but  not;'  'Polly,'  cried  the  yotuig^  man, 'do  you  think 
the  power  to  interfere  with  your  choice,  what- ."^  Jupiter  likc<l  llebe  any  the  less' because  she  was 
ever  that  choice  mi^ht  be.  ¥ou  were  your  own  'as  fresh  and  innocent  as  the  nectar  she  sqrved  out 
mistress,  Mary,  when  you  married  me.  What /to  him  r  If  he  had,  my  dear,  he'd  have  sent  for 
reason  have  you  to  fear  my  cousin  Olivia:'  ^Clotho,  or  Atropos,  "<r  some  one  or  other  of  the 

'  Xo  reason,  perhaps,' the  girl  answered,  sadly.  .^  elderly  maiden  ladies  of  Hades,  to  wait  upon 
'  but  1  do  fear  her.  I  know  I  am  very  foolish,  hiim  as  cup-bearer.  1  wouldn't  have  you  other- 
Edward,  and  you  have  reason  to  despise  me — /wise  than  you  are,  Polly,  by  so  much  as  one 
you,  who  a   -.so  brave.     But   I  could   never  tell  /  thought.' 

you  how  I  tremble  at  the  thought  of  being  once  ;  The  girl  looked  up  at  her  husband  in  a  rapture 
more  in  my  step-motber's  power.     Shc.suid  cruel  ^  of  innocent  affection. 

things  to  mc,  Kdward.  Every  word  she  spoke  |  '  I  am  too  happy,  Edward,' she  said,  in  a  Ibw, 
seemed  to  stab  me  to  the  heart;  but  it  isn't  that ;  awe-stricken  wliir^per.  '1  am  too  happy.  So 
only.  There's  something  more  than  that;  some-/ much  happiness  can  never  last.' 
thing  that  I  can't  describe,  that  1  can't  under->  Alas  1  ihe  orphan  girl's  experience  of  this  life 
stand;  something  which  tells  me  that  she  hales '■  had  early  taught  her  the  lesson  which  some  peo- 
rae.'  J  pie  learn   so   laic.     She   had    learned  to  distrust 

'  Hates  you,  darling.''  )  the  equal    blue   of  a    summer  sky,  the   glorious 

'  Yes, -fid ward,  yes;  she  hates  mjc.  it  wasn't /splendor,  of  the  blazing  sunlight.  Slie  was  ac- 
:!iways  so,  you  know.  She  used  to  he  only  cold /customed  to  norrow:  but  these  brief  glimpses  of 
and  reserved;  but  lately  her  manner  has  changed"  ^  perfect  happiness  filled  her  with  a  dim  sense  of 
1  thought  that  she  waB  ill,  pcrliaps,  and  that  mj'/lerror.  She  felt  like  some  earthly  wanderer  who 
presence  worried  her.  People  often  wish  to  bit  j  bad  str.iyed  across  the  thresh'dd  of  Paradise.  In 
alone,!  know,  when  they  are  ill.  ()  Kdward,  1 /' llif  mid>t  of  her  delight  and  adn)iration  she 
have  seen  her  shrink  from  me,  and  shudder  if  hii^  tninliitd  Ibr  the  moment  in  which  the  ruthle='; 
dress  brusbed  against  mine,  as  if  1  bad  been  souk-  aimels,  bearing  (laming  swords,  should  drive  h- 
horrible  creature.  What  have  I  done,  Edwaid^  lYor^the  celestial  wiles 
that  ."416  should  hale  me:'  '  It  can't  last,  Edwanl,'  she  murmured.    " 

Captain   Aruiidel   knitted    his    brow-,   and  srt  ■      'Can't    last,    Polly  I'  cried    the    young    man 
himself  to  work  out  this  womanly  [irobleni;  but    '  why,  mv  dove  is  tran'f'jrnird  all  at  O'l^e  into 
he  could   make   nothini;  of  it.     Yes,  what  Mary  -  raveii.     We  have  outlived    our  troubles.    Poll 
had  said   wa>    pcrfeclly  true:  Olivia   hate<l   her.  ;  like  the  hern  and  heroim;   in   one  of  your  rov 
Tlir  young  man  had  seen  ihatiipon    the  nmniing  laml  what  is'lo  prev/lnl  o»ir  living  happy  ever  a 
of  the  girl's  (li,ilitli-om  IMarehmonl  Towei-s      IJc    w..rd.  like  th<-m.'    If  you  remember,  my  i\c 
had    tetMi    vcngcrul    fury  and   vifidictivc  p»R«ion' sorro«vs  or  trials  ever  fall  to  the  lot  of  '     • 
racing  in   the    dark   face  tf  ,'n|in    Marchmonl's   fl;7rr  marriage.     The    persecutions,   the  • 
wniow.     Jliit  what  reason  could  the  woman  have    tini,>;,    the    estrangements,   arc    all    antrn 
for  her  hatred  of  th  s  insolent  girl.'     Again  and    When  onCc  your  true   novelist  gets  hi<  he 
a^ain  Olivia's  cousin  asked  himself  tliis  ij^stion;   heroine  up  to  the  altar  rails  in  real  carnc 
«nd   ke  was  so  far  sway  from  the  truth   at  la»t    gef^  them  into  the  church  eometimen,  an 


74  JOHN  MARCHMONT'S  LEGACY. 

(,.fv.     .  .  '         ■  " 

/■^rbids  the  bans,  or  brings  a  former  wife,  or  a? room  with  every  breath  of  the  w&rm  August 

•V  rightful  husband,  pale  and  denouncing,  from  be- i  breeze,  and  hung  trembling  in  the  folds  of  ihe 

*' iiid  a  pillar,  and  drives  the  wretched  pair  out  >  chintz  curtains.     Mr.  Aryndel's  gaze  wandered 

ain,  to  persecute  them  through  three  hundreil  j  dreamily  a-way  through  this  open  window  to  the 

j.uges  more  before  he  lets  them  get  back  again—  |  primitive  picture  without— the  scattered  cottages 

'  but  whefi  once  the  important  words  are  spoken  j  upoh  the  other  side  of  the  green,  the  cattle  sland- 

,    and  the  knot  tied,  the  story's  done,  and  the  happy  zing   in   the   pond,  the   cackling   geese   hurrying 

■couple  get  forty  or  fiff]yyjM«' wedded  bliss  as  a  J  homeward  across  the  purple  ridge  of  common, 

s.'i-pff  aiiainst  the  miseri^|IRiyr  have  endured  in  ahe  village  gossips  loitering  beneath   the  faded 

the  troubled  course  of  afP'^slTe-month's  court-  ?  sign  that  hung  before  the  low  white  tavern  at  the 

sliip.    That's-the  sort  of  thiiig*  isn't  it,  Polly?'     jangle  of  the  road.     He  looked  at  all  these  things 

The    clock    of     St.    Cross,    sounding    faintly -;  as  he  flung  his  leathern  desk  upon  the  table,  and 

athwart  the  meadows,  struck  three  as  the  young  ^  made  a  great  parade  of  unlocking  and  opening  it. 

iBan  finished  speaking.  J     '  The  letters  must  be  written,' he  repeated,  with 

'Three   o'clock,  Polly!'  he   cried;  *we  must /a  smothered  sigh.     'Did  you  ever  notice  a  pecu- 

go   home,  my  pet,     I  mean  to, be  busiaess-like  piar  property  in  stationery,  Polly  ?' 

to-day.'  ^     Mrs.  Edward  Arundel  only  opened  her  brown 

Upon  each  day  in  that  happy  honey-moon  holi-^/ eyes  to  their  widest   extent,  and   stared  at  her 

day  Captam  Arundel  had  fliade  some  such  decla- j  husband. 

raiioo   with   regard   tp    his   intention   of   being/     '  No  ;  I  see  you  haven't,' said  the  young  man. 
,_    bumi>?ss-like-,  that  is  to  say,  setting  himself  de- <  <  How  should  you,  you  fortunate  Polly?  you've 

'    libera '^ely  to  the   task  of  writing  those  letters  |  never  had  to  write  any  business-letters  yet,  tho^igh 

ywhich  Should  announce  and  explain  his  marriage  j  you  are  an  heiress.  The  peculiarity  of  all  sta- 
lo  the  people  who  had  a  right  to  hear  of  it.  But  ^  tionery,  my  dear,  is,  that  it  is  possessed  of  an  in- 
the  soldier  had  a  dislike  to  all  letter-writing',  and  i  tuitive  knowledge  of  the  object  for  which  it  is  to 
a  special  horror  of   any  epistolary  communica- J  be  used.  If  one  has  to  write  an  unpleasant  letter? 

•  tion  which  could  come  under  the  denomination  (  Polly,  it  might  go  a  little  smoother,  you  know; 
of  a  business-letter;  so  the  easy  summer  days  |  one  might  round  one's  paragraphs,  and  spell  the 
slii.ped  by— the  delicious  drowsy  noontides,  the  >  difficult  words— the  "believes"  and  "receives," 
8oi>  and  dreamy  twilight,  the  tender  moonlitMhe  "tills"  and  "untils,"  and  all  that  sort  of. 
nights— and  the  Captain  put  off  the  taskfor  which  >  thing — better  with  a  pleasant  pen,  an  easy-going, 
he  had  no  fancy,  from  after  breakfast  until  after?  jolly,  soft-nibbed  quill,  that  would  seem  to  say, 
diriner,  and  from  after  dinner  until  after  break->  "Cheer  up,  old  fellow,  I'll  carry  you  through  it ; 
f  si ;  always  beguiled  away  from  his  open  trav->  we'll  get  to  '  your  very  obedient  sq^vant  '  before 
elirisr-desk  by  a  word  from  Mary,  who  called  him  ?  you  know  where  you  are,"  and  so  on.  But,  bless 
ti>  the  window  to  look  at  a  pretty  child  on  the  i  y-our  heart,  Polly,  let  a  poor,  unbi*iness-like  fel- 
viiiage  green  before  the  inn,  or  at  the  black- 5  low  try  to  write  a  business-letter,  and  every 
s<nith's  dog,  or  the  tinker's  donkey,  or  a  tired  >  thing  goes  agaffist  him.  The  pen  knows  what 
It  »lian  organ-boy  who  had  strayed  into  that  out-}  he's  at,  and  jibs  and  tumbles  and  shies  about  the 
cf-the-way  nook,  or  at  the  smart  butcher' from  j  paper-  like  a  broken-down  screw  ;  the  ink  turns 
^Vinchcster,  who  rattled  over  in  a  pony-eart  >  thick  and  lumpy,  the  paper  gets  as  greasy  as  a 
twice  a  week  to  take  orders  from  the  gentry  >  London  pavement  after  a  fall  of  snow,  till  a  poor 
round  about,  and  to  insult  and  defy  the  local  pur- >  fellow  gives  up,  and  knocks  under  to  the  force  of 
veyor,  whose  stock  generally  seemed -to  consist  >  circumstances.  You  see  if  my  pen  doesn't  splut- 
of  one  leg  of  mutton  and  a  dish  of  pig's  fry.        iter,  Polly,  the  moment  I  address  Richard  Pau- 

The  young  couple  walked  slowly  through  theJiette." 
meadows,  crossing  rustic  wooden  bridges  that  5     Captain  Arundel  was  very  careful  in  the  ad- 
spanned  the  winding  stream,  loitering  to  look  5  justment  of  his  sheet  of  paper,  and  began  his  let- 
down into  the  clear  water  at  the  fish  which  Cap- iter  with  an  air  of  resolution  : 
lai'i  Arundel  pointed  out,  but  which  Mary  could  > 
never  see,  that  young  lady  always  fixing  her  eyes  > 
upon  some  long  trailing  weed  afloat  in  the  trans-? 
parent  watM,  wliile  the'  silvery  trout  indicated^ 
by  her  husbwot glided  quietly  away  to  the  sedgy  ' 
boitom   of  w^  stream.     They   lingered   by  the 
water-mill,  beifsiith  whose  shadow  some  children    i 
were  fishing  ;  fney  seized  upon  every  pretext  for 

lentithening  that  sunny  homeward  walk,  and  only  „  ,   .  _   ..  . 

reached  the  inn  as  the  village  clocks  were  strik-  site  her  husband  at  the'iopen  window,  wor^iVng, 
int:  four,  at  which  hour  CaptaiA  Arundel  had  or  making  a  pretense  of  being  occupied  with 
ordered  dinner.  •  some  impossible  fragment  of  Berlin  wool-work, 

But  after  the  simple  littlp  repast,  mild  ^d  art-    while  she  watched  her  husband. 

less  in  its  nature  .as  the  fair  young  spirit  of  the       '  Plow  pretty   you   look   in   that  white  frock, 

.  bride  herself ;  after  the  landlord,  sympathetic  yet    Polly  !'  said  the  soldier;  'you  call  those  things 

respectful,  had  in  his  own  person  attended  upon    frocks,  don't  you?    And  that  blue  sash,  too — you 

>  his  two  guests;  after  the  pretty  rustic  chamber   ought  always  to   wear  -white,  Mary,  like  your 

•  onad  been  cleared  of  all  evidence  of  the  meal  that  namesakes  abroad  who  are  vcvee  an  hlartc  by 
thud  been  eaten— Edward  Arundel' began  to  se-  their  faithful  mothers,  and  who  are  a  blessing  to 
won  isly  consider  the  business  in  hand.    •  the  laundresses  for  the   first  seven  or  fourteen 

little  The  letters  must  be  written,  Polly,' he  said,  Jyears  of  their  lives.  What  shall  I  say  to  Pau- 
grancng  himself  at  a  table  near  the  open  wfndow.  \  lette?  He's  such  a  jolly  fellow,  there  owghn't  to 
whonijiiig  branches  of  jasmine  and  honey-suckle  be  much  difficulty  about  the  matter.  "My  dear 
hy-th«,  a  frame-work  round  the  diamond-paned  i  Sir,"  seems  absurdly  stifi';  "Mj  dear  Paulette" — 
lunaCjQent;  the  scented  blossoms  blew  into  the  |  that*  better— "I  write  this  to  inform  you  thai 

'  P: 
papa  f 


•Whit^  Hart  Ink,  MiLi.n.u.F,  :«ear  WiKCHatna, 
August  14, 

•  Mt  Dear  Sir  ' — 

He  wrote  as  much  as  this  with  great  prompti- 
tude, and  then,  with  his  elbow  on  the  table,  fell 
to  stating  at  his  pretty  young  wife  and  drumming 
his  fingers  on  his  chin.     Mary  was  sitting  p£po- 


J®HN  MARCaMONT',3  LEGACY. 


75 


four  client,  Mis3  Mary  March- 
oUy?' 


What's  that, ;'  to  look  for  her.    I'm  very  glad  1  didn't  writ?  to 
,-         ^,  ,  .,  (Olivia.     We  were  so  happy  this  morning: !     Who 

It  was  the  postman,  a  youth  upon  a  ponv,  with  -  could  think  that  sorrow  would  come  between  u^ 
the   afternoon    letters    from    London.      Captain  '  so  soon  ?' 

Arundel  flung  dov^n  his  pen  and  went  to  the  win-  '  Captain  Arundel  looked  at  his  watch  It  was 
dow.  He  had  some  mterest  m  this  young  man's  ;  a  quarter  to  six  o'clock,  and  he  knew  that  sn 
arrival,  as  he  had  left  orders  that  such  letters  as  express  left  Southampton  for  the  west  at  eiehf 
•were  addressed  to  him  at  the  hotel  in  Covent  Gar- '  There  would  be  time  for  him  to  catch  that  Ir^iti 
den  should  be  forwarded  to  him  at  Milldale.  j  with  the  help  of  a  sturdy  pony  belonginir  to  the 

'I  dare  say  there  s  a  letter  from  Germany,  '  landJord  of  the  White  Hart,  which  would  rattie 
folly,  he  said,  eagerly.  'My  mother  and  Letjtia  him  over  to  the  station  in  an  hour  and  a  half 
are  capital  correspondents  ;  I'll  wager  any  thing  ;  There  would  be  time  for  him  to  catch  the  train' 
there  s  a  letter,  and  I  can  answer  it  in  the  one  ,  but,  oh,  how  little  time  to  comfort  hisdarline' 
1  m  going  to  write  this  evening,  and  that'll  be  !.how  little  time  to  reconcile  his  young  wife  to  tho 
killing  two  birds  with  one  stone.     I'll  run  down  (  temporary  separation  ! 

to  the  postman,  Polly.'  J      He  hurried  hack  to  the  porch,  briefly  explained 

Captain  Arundtvl  had  good  reason  to  go  after  J  to  the  landlord  what  had  happened,  ordered  ihe 
his  letters,  for  there  seemed  little  chance  of  those!  pony  and  gig  to  be  got  ready  immediately  and 
missives  being  brought  to  him.  The  youthful' ;  then  went  very,  very  slowly  up  stairs  \o  the 
postni^a  was  standing  in  the  porch  drinking  ale  room  in  which  his  vonng  wife  sat  by  the  open 
out  of  a  ponderous  earthen-ware  mug,  and  talk-  window  waiting  for  'his  return 
ingtoihe  landlord,  when  Edward  went  down.  \  Mary  looked  up  at  his  face  as  he  entered  the 
JUiJi.etters  lor  me,  Dick?  the  Captain  aeked.  \  room,  and  that  one  glance  told  her  of  some  new 
He   Know   the   Christian  name  of  almost  every  ;  sorrow.  • 

visitor  or  hanger-on  at  the  little  inn,  thou-h  he  'Edward,'  she  cried,  starting  up  from  her 
had  not  staid  there  an  entire  fortnight,  and  was  :  chair  with  a  look  of  terror,  'ray  step-mother  1  as 
as  popular  and  admired  as   if  he  had  been  some    come !' 

free-spoken  yoiing  squire  to  whom  all  the  land  \  Even  in  his  trouble  the  young  man  smiled  at 
round  about  belonged.  !  his   foolish    wife's   all-absorbing  fear  of  Olivia. 

i-es,  bir,   ttyi  young  man  answered, shullling    Marchmont. 
ofl  his  cap;  'there  be  two  letters  for  ye.'  ^  |      'No,  my  darling,'  he  said  ;  'I  wisli  to  Heaven 

Hehande.  the  two  packets  to  Captain  Anm- ;  our  worst  trouble  were  the  chance  of  j'ourfailier's 
del,  who  looked  doubtfully  at  the  address  of  the  ;  widow  breaking  in  upon  us.  Something  hashao- 
uppermost,  which,  like  the  other,  had  been  re- ;  pcned,  Mary  ;,  something  very  sorrowftil.  very 
directed  iij-  the  people  at  the  London  hotel.  The  <  serious  for  me.  My  father  is  ill,  Polly  dear  dan- 
origmal  address  of  this  letter  was  in  a  hand- )  gerously  ill,  and  I  mu»t  go  to  him.' 
writing  that  was  strange  to  him  ;  but  it  bore  the  ;  Mary  Arundel  drew  a  long  breath.  Her  face 
po^t-mark  of  the  village  from  which  t!ie  Danger- ;  had  grown  very  white;  and  the  hands  that  wer^ 

•Th'h.^'rjf?h''"'-    lb,-.  .     ,   blinked  tightly  together  upon  her  husband's  shoui: 

Ihc  back  of  the  inn  looked  into  an  orchard,  :  der  trembled  a  little, 
and  through  an  open  door  opposite  to  the  porch  ;      'I  will  try  to  bear  it,'  she  said  ;  «I  will  trv  to 
Edward  Arundel  saw  the  low  branches  of  the  '  bear  it.'  ^ 

trees,  and  the  ripening  fruit  red  and  golden  in  |      'God   bless  you,  my  darling!'  the  soldier  an- 
the  allernoon  sunlight.     He  went^oilt  into  this    swered,  fervently,  clasping  his  youna:  wife  to  his'  • 
orchard  to  read  his  letters,  his  mind  a  little  dis-  ;  breast.     '1  know  you   will.     It  wifl   be   a  very 
turhcd  by  the  strange  handwriting  upon  the  Dau- :  short  parting,  Mary  deacest.     I  will  come  back 
ger(icld.ei-.istle.  ^.    ^  .^     ,    ,         ,  •  to  you  directly  I  have  seen  my  father.     If  he  is 

I  he  letter  was  from  his  father's  housekeeper,  I  worse,  there  will  be  little  need  for  me  to  ston  at 
nip  onnp  him  most  earnestly  to  go  down  to  the  Dangerfield  ;  if  he  is  better,  I  can  take  you  back 
lark  without  delay,  inquire  Arundel  had  been  there  with  me.  My  own  darling  love,  it  is  very 
seized  with  an  attack  ol  fferalysis.  and  was  de-  bitter  for  us  to  be  parted  thus-  but  I  kno.v 
slarcd  to  be  in  imminent  danger.  Mrs.  and  Miss  that  you  will  bear  it  like  a  heroine.  Won't  vou 
Arundel  and   Mr.   Reginald  were  away  in  Gcr-    Polly  ?'  ' 

many.     The   faithful   old   servant   implored  the  (      »I  will  try  to  bear  it,  dear  ' 
younger  son  to  lose  no  time  in  hurrying  home,  if;      She  said  very  little-  more  than  this,  but  clmz 
le  wished  to  see  his  father  alive.  i  about  her  husband,  not  with  any  desperate  force, 

J  he  soldier  stoo.l  leaning  against  the  gnarled  not  with  any  clamorous  and  tumultuous  irrief.  but 
n-ay  trunk  ol  an  old  apple-tree,  staring  at  this  i  with  a  half-despondent  resignation  ;  as  a  drown- 
etlcr  with  a  white  awc-stricken  face.  j  ing  man,  whose  strength  is  well-nigh  exhausted, 

W  hat  was  he  to  do  >     He  must  go  to  his  father,    may  ding,  in  his  ho-pelcssncss,  to  a  spar  which  he '  ■ 
•1  course.     He  must  go  without  a  moment's  de- '  knows  he  must  prescntlw^bandon 
ay.     He  must  catch  the  first  train   that  would!      Mary  Arundel  followfGlit  husband  hither  and 
arrv  him  westwaal  from  Southampton.     There  ;  thither  while  he  made  hiVOTRf  and  hurried  pre- 
ould  be  no  qucstior^as  to  his  duty;  He  must  go  ;  ;  parations  for  the  sudden  journey  ;  but  althoueh 
.e  must  leave  his  ydung  wife.  ]  she  was  powerless  to  assist  him— for  ha*'  ircr> 

His  heart  sank  with  a  sharp  thrill  of  pain,  and  bling  hands  let  fall  every  thing  she  tried  to  hi«'.. 
mh  perhaps  some  faint  shuddering  sense  of  an  and  there  was  a  mist  before  her  eyes  which  di^ 
nknown  terror,  as  he  thought  of  this.       >  '  torfed  and  bJoUqd  the  outline  of  each  object  she       ' 

It  was  lucky  1  didn  t  write  the  Jetters.'he  re-  ;  looked  at— she  hindered'  him  by  uo  noisy  lamen- 
ect.d  ;  'no  one  will  guess  the  secret  of  my  dar- '  tation^,  she  distressed  him  by.no  tears.  She  uuf- 
ngs  retreat,  fehe  can  slay  here  till  I  come  ;  fered,  as  it  was  her  habit  to  sufler,  nuicfly  an''. 
ack  to  her.     God  knows  I  shall  hurry  b:'.ck  the  [  uncomplainingly. 

lomcnt  my  duty  sets  mo   free.    These   people  I     the  sun  was  sinking  when  she  wen,t  with  Ed- 
Ul  fttl{«  •Rro  of  lier.     No  one  will  know  where  !  ward  down  stairs  to  the  porch,  before  which  ih« 


7(3  *         JOHN  MAUCHMOWT 'S  LEGACY 

landlonJ's  pony  and  gig  were  in  waiting,  in  cus-  his  father  out  of  danger — restored  to  health,  pcj- 
tody  of  a  smart  lad  who  was  to  drive  Mr.  Arun-  'haps — and  to  return  to  her  before  the  stars  glim- 
del  to  Southampton.  There  was  no  time  for  any  niered  through  tlie  darkness  of  another  oummer's 
protracted  farewell!  It  was  better  so,  perhaps,  night.  She  prayed  for  him,  hoping  and  believing 
Edward  thought.  Fie  v/ould  be  back.so  soon  that  every  thing  ;  though  at  the  tiour  in  which  jhe 
the  grief  he  felt  in  this  parting — and  it  may  be  knelt,  with  the  faint  starlight  shiflimering  upon 
that  his  suffering  v/as  scarcely  less  than  Mary's— N'her  upturned  face  and  clasped  hands,  Edward' 
seemed  wasted  anguish,  to  which  it  would  have  ;  Arundel  was  lying, maimed  and  senseless,  in  the 
been  siieer  cowardice  to.  give  way.  But  for  all  wretched  waiting-room  of  a  little  railway-station 
this  the  soldier  very  nearly  broke  dov.'n  when  he  in  Dorsetshire,  watched  over  by  an  obscure  coun- 
saw  his  cliildish  wife's  piteous  face,  white  in  the  ,  try  surgeon,  while  the  frightened  oflicials  icud- 
evening  sunlight,  turned  to  him  in  mute  appeal.  ,  ded  here  and  there  in  s'earch  of  soi.ie  vehicle  in 
as  if  the  ([uivering  lips  would  fain  have  entreated  j  which  the  yoting  man  might  be  conveyed  to  the, 
him  to  abandon  a}l  and  to  remain.     He  lifted  the    nearest  to\yn. 

fragile   figure   in   his   arms — alas!  it   had   never  j     There  had  been  one  of  those,  accidents  which 
seemed  so  fragile  as  now — and  covered  the  pale  ;seeni  terribly  common  on  every  line  of  railv/ay, 
face    with    passionate    kisses    and   fast-dropping  ■;  hov/ever  well  managed.     A  signal-man  had  mis- 
tears,  f;  taken   one   train  for   another;   a  Ijag  had   been 
'God    bless    and    defend    you,    Mary!      God  f  dropped  too  soon  ;  and  the  down  e:xpress  had  run 
keep — '  ;  into 'a  heavy   luggage-train   blundering  up  from 
He  was  asliamed  of  the  huskiness  of  his  voice,  <  Exeter  with  farm  produce  for  the  l>ondon  mar- 
and  putting  h'H  wife  suddenly  away  from  him,  he  :kets.'   Two  men    had   been    killed,  and  a   great 
sf>rang  inio  the  gig,  snatched  the  reins  fr(3m  the  ;  many  passengers  hurt  ;  some  very  seriously.    Ed- 
boy's  hand,  and  drove  away  at  the  pony's  best ;!  ward  Arundel's  case  was  perhaps  one  of  the  most 
speed.     The  old-fashioned  vehicle  disappeared  in  ;  serious  among  these. 
•  a  cloud  of  dust  ;  and   Mary,  looking   after  her  1 
husband  with  eyes  that  were  as  yet  tearless,  saw  ', 

noihing   but   glaring  light  and  confusion,  and  a;  •♦o«-  ^- 

pastoral  landscape  ihat  reeled  and  heaved  like  a  ■ 
stomiv  S6I1  • 

It  seemed  to  her,  as  she  went  slowly  back  to  .  CHAPTER  XIX.        ^ 

her  room,  and  sat  dov/n   amidst  the  disorder  of;  sovndikg  the  uepths. 

open^portmanteaus   and    overturned   hat-boxes,  >  .  '  ^ 

which  the  yoijng  man  had  thrown  here  and  there;,  Lavima.  Weston  spent  the  evening  after  her 
in  his  hurried  selection  of  the  few  things  neces-;,  visit  to  Marchmont  Towers  at  her  writing-desk, 
sary  for  hiiA  to  take  on  his.has-ty  journey— it  Svhich,  like  every  thing  else  appertaining  to  her, 
seemed  OS  if  the  greatest  calanyty  of  her  life  had  ^' was  a  model  of  neatness  and  propriety;  perfect 
nov/  befallen  her.  As  hopelessly  as  she  had  ;  in"itsv/ay,  although  it  was  no  marvellous  speci- 
thought  of  her  father's  death,  she  now  thought  of;  men  of  walnut-wood  and  burnished  gold,  no  elc- 
Eijward  Arundel's  departure.  She  could  not  see;  gant  structure  of  papier-mache  and  mother-of- 
beyond  the  acute  anguish  of  tills  separation.  She-pearl,  but  simply  a  school-girl's  rosewood  vel- 
could  not  realize  to  herself  that  there  was  lio-  vet-lined  desk,  bought  for  fifteen  shillings  or  a 
cause  for  all  this  terrible  sorrow  ;  that  the  part- :  guinea.,, 

ing  was  only  a  temporary  one  ;  and  that  her  hus-;;  Mrs.  'Weston  had  administered  the  evening 
bajjd  would  return  to  her  in  a  few  days  at  the i,  refreshment  of  weak  tea,  stale  bread,  and  strong 
furthest.  Now  that  she  was  alone,  that  the  ne-^  butter  to  her  meek  husband,  and  had  dismissed 
cfc.ssily  for  heroism  was  pas-t,  she  abandoned  licr-  him  to  the  surgery,  a  sunken  and  rather  cellar- 
self  utterly  to  the  despair  that  had  held  possession  :  like  apartment  opening  out  of  the  prim  secojid- 
of  her  soul  from  tlie  moment  in  which  Captain  ■;  best  parlor,  and  approached  from  the  village 
Arundel  had  told  her  of  his  father's  illness.  ;  street  by  a  side-door.     The 'surgeon    was    very 

The  sun  went  dcwn  behind  the  purple  hills ;  wcU  content  to  employ  himself  with  the  prepa- 
that  sheltered  the  western  side  of  the  little  vil- J;  ration  of  such  draughts  aftd  boluses  as  were  re- 
lage.  The  tree-tops  in  the  orchard  below  thc';(juired  by  the  ailing  inhabitants  of  Kemberling, 
open  window  of  Mrs.  Arundel's  bedroom  grew  ;  wriile  his  wife  sat  at  her  desk  in  the  room  above 
dim  in  the  gray  twilight.  Little  by  little  the  him.  He  left  his  gallipots  and  pestle  and  mor- 
sound  of  voices  in  the  rooms  below  died  ajv'ay '■;  tar  once'or  twice  in  the  course, of  the  evening 
into  stillness.  The  i'resh  rosy-cheeked  country  ;  to  clamber  ponderously  up  the  three  or  four  stairs 
girl  who  had  waited  upon  the  young  husband  and  .  leading  to  the  sitting-room,  and  stare  through 
wife  came  into  the  sitting-room  with  a  pair  of ;  the  keyhole  of  the  door  at  Mrs.  Weston's  thought- 
wax  candles  in  old-fashioned  silver  candlesticks, ;  ful  face,  and  busy  hand  gliding  softly  over  tlie 
•and  lingered  in  the  room  for  a  little  time,  expect- j  smooth  note-paper.  He  did  this  in  no  prying  or 
ing  to  receive  some  order  from  the  lonely  ;  suspicious  spirit,  but  out  of  sheer  admiration  for 
watcher.     But  Mary  had  locked  the  door  of  her;  his  wife. 

bedchamber,  and  sat  with  her  head'upcn  the  sill^  'What  a  mind  she  has!'  he  mprmured,  rap- 
•of  the  open  window,  looking  wearily  out  into  tlie  turously,  as  he  went  back  to  his  jvor!:;  '  what  a 
dim  orchard.     It  was  only  when  the  stars  glim- J  mind!' 

mered  in  the  tranquil  sky  that  the  girl's  blank:  The  letter  which  Lavinia  Weston  wrote  that 
despair  gave  way  before  a  sudden  burst  of  tears,  ',  evening  was  a  very  long  one.  She  was  one  of 
a»d  she  flung  herself  down  beside  the  white-cur- '  those  women  who  write  Jong  letters  upon  every 
taincd  bed  to  pray  for  her  young  husband.  She  ;  convenient  occasion.  To  jjight  she  covered  two 
prayed  for  him  in  an  ecstatic  fervor  of  love  and  ;  sheets  of'note-p'aper  with  her  small  neat  hand- 
faith,  carried  away  by  the  new  liopcfulness  that  ;  writing.  Those  two  sheets  contained  a  detailed 
iirosc  out  of  her  ardent  supplications,  a«d  pictur-  -,  account  of  the  interview  that  had  taken  plac( 
ing  him  going  triumpliant  on  his  course  to  find  ;  that  day  between  the  surgeon's  wife  and  OIitio 


JOiirC  MARCflMOWT'S  LBttACY. 


and  l.tie  Ictier  T?as  iddrcised  to  the  artist,  Paul  'in?;,  and  were  essilj  put  out  by  •  l'*w  quips  jind 
Marchmont.  ';  quaint  retort?  from  the  mad  Danish  prince;  but 

r'erhaps  it  v.'ns  in  consequence  of  the  receipt ;  Paul  Marchmont  tcou/iZ  hare  played  upon  Hamlet 
of  this  letter  that  Paul  Marchmont  arrived  at '  more  deftly  than  ever  mortal  physician  playtd 
his  sister's  house  at  Kemberlinc;  two  days  after  ,  upon  pipe  or  recorder,  and  -would  have  fathomed 
Mrs.  Weston's  visit  to  Marchmont  Tower*.  He  .the  remotest  depths  of  thnt  sorrowful  and  erratic 
told  the  surgeon  that  he  came  to  Lincolnshire  for  soul.  Oliria  writhed  under  the  torture  of  tliat 
a  few  days'  chann:c  of  air,  after  a  long  spell  of  polite  inquisition,  for  she  knew  th.it  her  secrets 
very  hard  work;  and  (ieorge  Weston,  who  looked  were  being  extorted  from  her  ;'-  that  her  pitiful 
upon  his  brother-in-law  as  an  intellectual  demi- ,  folly — that  folly  which  she  would  have  denicj;! 
god,  wps  very  well  content  to  accept  any  cxpla-  even  to  herself,  if  jiossible — wai  being  laid  bare 
nation  of  Mr.  Marchmoot'-s  visit.  '  i  in  all  it»  weak  fooli.Mincss.     She  knew  this  ;  but 

'  Kemberling  isn't  a  very  lively  place  for  you, '  sRe  w.is  compelled  to  Smile  in  the  face  of  her* 
Mr.  Paul,'  he  said,  apologeticallv — he  always  ,  l)!and  inquisitor,  to  respond  to  his  commonplace 
called  his  wife's  brother  Mr.  Pauf— '  but  I  dare  ,  expressions  of  concern  about  th«  protracted  ab- 
say  Lavinia  will  contrive  to  make  you  comfort- 1  «cncc  of  the  missing 'M,  and  meekly  to  receive 
able."  she  persuaded  me  to  come  here  when  old  ;  his  suggestions  respecting  the  course  it  was  li(  r 
Dawnfield  died;  but  I  can't  say  she  acted  with  j  duty  to  take.  ,He  had  the  air  of  responding  t.> 
her  usual  tact,  for  the  business  ain't  as-good  as  J  her  suggestions,  rather  than  of  himself  dictatinj^ 
my  Stanfield  practice;  but  1  don.'t  tell  Lavinia  any  particular  line  of  conduct-.  He  affected  to 
so.'  j  believe  that  he  was  only  ajjreeing  ■<^'\\.h  some  un- 

Paul  Marchmont  smiled.  }  derstood  ideas  of  hen,  i\'hile  he  urged  his  own 

'  The  business  will   pick  up  by-and-by,  I  dare  J  views  upon  her. 
say,'  he  said.      'You'll    have    the   Marchmont  i      'Then  wc  arc  qaito  of  one  mind   in  this,  my 
Towers'  family  to  attend  to  in  good  time,  I  sup-  j  dear  Mrs.  JNIarchmont,'  he  said,  at  last  ;  'this  un- 
pose.'  .  ;  fortunate   girl   must   not   be   suffered   to  remain 

'  That's  what  f.avinia  said,'  answered  the  but-'  away  from  her  legitimate  home  anj  longer  than 
p-con.      '  Mrs.  John   Marchmont  can't  refuse  to  J  we  can  help.     It  is  our  duty  to  find  and  bring  her, 

i.iploy  a  relation,'  she  says;  '  and  as  first  cousin  1  back.  I  need  scarcely  say  that  you,  being  bound 
nr  .Mary  Marchmont's  father,  I  oui<ht' — meaning  i  to  her  by  every  tie  of  affection,  and  having,  be-  ( 
herself^,  you  know — 'to  have  some  influence,  in  ,' yond  this,  the  strongest  claim  upon  her  gratitude 
that  quarter.'  But  then,  you  see,  the  very  week  |  t'or  your  devoted  fulfillment  of  the  truit  confided 
wc  conip  here  the  gal  goes  and  runs  away;  which  :  in  you — one  hears  of  these  thihgs,  Mrs.  March- 
rather,  as  one  maysay,  puts,  a  spoke  in  our  wheel, '  mont,  in  a  country  village  like  Kemberling — I 
you  know. '  i  n6ed  scarcely  say  that   you   are   the  most  fitting 

Mr.  (leorge  Weston  rubbed  his  cliin  reflectively  ^  person  to  win  the  poor  child  back  to  a  sense  of 
as  lie  concluded  thus.     He  was  a  man  given  to  )  her  duty — if  she   can  be  won  to  such  a  sense.' 
spending   his    leisure,  hours — when   he   had   any  !  Paul  Marchmont  added,  after  a  sudden  pause  and 
.leisure,  Vhich   was   not    very    often — in   tavern  ;  u  thoughtful  sigh, 'I  sotnctiiues  fear  — ' 
"parlors,    v.'liere    the   affairs  of   the    nation  were;      He    stopped    abruptly,    waiting    until    Olivia 
settled  and  unsettled  every  evening  over  sixpenny  \ 
glasses  of  Hollands  and  water;  and  he  regretted  'i 
his  removal   from  Stanfield,  which  had  been  as; 
the  uprooting  of  all  his  dearest  associations.     He 
was  a  solemn  man,  who  never  hazarded  an  opin- 
ion   lightly — perhaps    because   he  never  had  an 
opinion  to  hazard — and  his  stolidity  won  him  a 

good  deal   of  respect  from  strangers;  but  in  the  '  swered  the  artist,  gravely  ;  'one  of  the  most  pow- 

hands  of  his  wife  he  was  meeker  than  the  doves  '  erful  evidences  of  the  soundness  of  a  mun's  brain 

lluit  cooed  in  the  pigeon-house  behind  his  dwelling, '  is  his  capability  of  assigning  a  reaionable  motive 

and  more  plastic  than  the   knob  of  white  wax    for  every  action  of  his  life.     No   matter  how  un- 

^ipon  which  industrious  .Airs.   Weston   was  wont !  reasonable  the  action   in   itself  may  seem,  if  the 

to  rub  her  thread  when  engaged  in  the  mysteries  .  motive  for  that  action  can  be  demonstrated.    But 

of  that  elaborate  and  terrible  science  which  wo-;  the  moment  a  man  acts  vilhovl  motive,  we  begin 

men  paradox'irally  call  plain  needle-work.  f  to  lake  alarm  and  to  watch  him.  He  is  eccentric; 

Paul    Marchmont    presented    himself    at    the    his  conduct  is  no  longer  amenable  to  ordinary 

Towers  upon  the  day  after  his  arrival  at  ICera-    rule  ;  and  we  begin  to  trace  his  eccentricities  to 

'berling.     His   interviow  with  the  widow  was  a    some  weakness  or  deficiency  in  his  judgment  or 

very  long  one.     He  had  studied  every  line  of  bis    intellect.     Now,  I   ask  you   what   motive  Mary, 

sister's  letter;  he  liad  weighed  every  word  that    Marchmont  can  have  had  fop  running  away  from 

had  fallen  from   Olivip's  lips  ai\d  had  been' re-    this  house.'' 

corded  by  Lavinia  Weston;  and  taking  the  knowl-  Olivia  ([uailed  under  the  piercing  scrutiny  of 
edge  thus  obtained  as  bis  starting-point,  he  toot  .  the  artist's  cold  gray  eyes,  but  she  did  not  al- 
his  dissecling-knifc  ami  went  tn  work  at  an  intcl-  tempt  to  reply  to  his  question. 
lectual  autupsj.  He  nnalomi/.ed  the  wretclicd  'The  answer  is  very  simple,'  he  continued, 
woman's  soul."  He  made  her  tell  her  seciel,  and  after  that  long  scrutiny  :  'the  girl  could  have  had 
bare  her  tortured  breast  bpfor9  him:  now  wring-  no  cause  for  (light;  while,  on  the  other  hand, 
ing  some  hasty  word  from  her  impatience,  now  every  reasonable  motive  that  can  be  supposed  In. 
entrapping  her  into  some  admission — if  only  as  actuate  a  woman '^  conduct  was  arrayed  against 
niuqli  as  a  defiant  lool^,  a  sudden  lowering  of  the  ht>r.  Mhc  had  a  happy  home,  a  kind  step-mother, 
dark  brows,  an  involuntary  compression  df  tiie  She  was  within  a  few  years  of  becoming  undis- 
lips.  ilo.  made  her  reveal  herself  to  him.  Poor  puted  mistress  of^,a  very  large  estate.  And  yet, 
Iloscncrantz  and  Gnildenstern  were  sorry  bldn-  [  immediately  after  having  assisted  at  a  festive  en- 
d«r«rs  in  th»t  art  whi^h  is  Tuljjsrly  ealUd  pump-',  tertainment,  to  ill  sppcartnr*  as  juj  and  happy 


should  question  him. 

'You  sometimes  fear — ?' 

'That — that  the  error  into  which  Miss  March- 
mont has  fallen  is  the  result  of  a  mental  rather 
than  of  a  moral  deficiency.' 

'What  (to  you  mean  .-' 

'1  mean   this,  my  dear  Mrs.   I\Iarchmont,' an- 


jonif  w.VRcrHMoriT'i  ljeoact.. 


as  the  gayest  and  happiest  there.this  girl  runs  awajf  j  some  faint  suspicion  was  beginning  to  dawn  upo« 
in  the  dead  of  the  night,  abandoning  the  mansion  <  her. 

which  is  her  own  property,  and  assigning  no  rea-  If  she  could  have  thought  Mary  Marchmont 
son  whatever  for  what  she  does.  Can  jou  won- 1  mad— if  she  could  have  thought  Edward  Arundel 
der,  then,  if  I  fe&l  confirmed  in  an  opirkion  that  1 1  base— she  would  have  been  glad  ;  for  then  there 
formed  upon  the  day  on  which  1  heard  the  read-  j  would  have  been  some  excuse  for  her  own  wick- 
ine  of  my  cousin's  will  ?'  '  edness.     But  she  could  not  think  so.    She  slipped 

'What  opinion  ?'  '  .  '>  i'Ml^  by  little  down  into  the  black  gulf,  dragged 

•That  Mary  Marchmont  is  as  feeble  In  mind  as  |  now  by  her  own  mad  passion,  now  lured  yet  fur^ 
she  ■  fragile  in  body.'  ther  downward  by  Paul  Marchmont. 

He  launched  this  sentence  boldly,  and  waited  Between  this  man  and  eleven  thousand  a  year 
foii  Olivia's  rep'y.  He  had  discovered  the  the  life  of  a  fragile  girl  was  the  solitary  obstacle, 
widow's  secret.  He  had  fathomed  the  cause  of  J  For  three  years  it  had  been  so,  and  for  three 
her  jealous  hatred  of  Mary  Marchmont;  but  J  years  Paul  Marclrniont  had  waited— patiently,  as 
even  he  did  n  jt  yet  understand  the  nature  of  the  j  it  was  his  habit  to  wait — the  hour  and  the  oppor- 
conflict  in  the  desperate  woman's  breast.  She  |  tunity  for  action.  The  hour  and  opportunity  had 
could  not  be  wicked  all  at  once.  Against  every  j  come,  and  this  woman,  Olivia  Marchmont,  only 
fresh  sin  she  made  a  fresh  struggle,  alid  stie  j  stood  in  his  way.  She  must  become  either  his 
would  not  accept  the  lie  which  the  artist  tried  to  j  enemy  or  his  tool,  to  be  baffled  or  to  be  made 
force  upon  her.  useful.     He  had  now  sounded  the  depths  of  her 

'J  do  not  think  that  there  is  any  deficiency  in  \  nature,  and  he  determined  to  make  her  his  tool, 
my  step-daughter's  intellect,' she  said,  resolutely,  j      'It  shall  be  my  business  to  discover  this  poor 

She  was  beginning  to*understand  that  Paul  child's  hiding-place,'  he  said;  'when  that  is 
Marchmont  wanted  to  ally  himself  with  her  found,  I  will  communicate  with  you,  and-l  know 
against  the  orphan  heiress,  but  as  yet  she  did  not  you  will  not  refuse  tq  fulfill  the  trust  confided  to 
understand  why  he  should  do  so.  She  was  slow  you  by  your  late  husband.  Yqu  will  bring  your 
to  comprehend  feelings  that  were  utterly  foreign  >' step-daughter  back  to  this  house,  and  hencefor- 
to  her  own  nature.  There  was  so  little  of  mer-  \  ward  protect  her  from  the  dangerous  influence  of 
cenary  baseness    in  this  strange  woman's  soul,  ^Edward  Arundel.'^ 

tlfct  had  the  flame  of  a  candle  alone  stood  be- 1  Olivia  looked  at*  the  speaker  with  an  expres- 
{ween  her  and.  the  possession  of  Marchmont  Tow-  >  sion  which  seemed  like  terror.  It  was  as  if  she 
ers,  I  doubt  if  she  would  have  cared  to  waste  a  \  said, 

breath  upon  its  extinction.  She  had  lived  away  )  'Are  you  the  devil,  that  you  hold  out  this  tempt 
from  the  world,  and  out  of  the  world  ;  and  it  was  ' 


difficult  for  her  to  comprehend  the  mean  and  pal 
try'wickednesses  which  arise  out  of  the  worship 
of  Baal. 

Paul  Marchmont  recoiled  a  little  before  the 
straight  answer  which  the  widow  had  given  him; 

•You  think  Miss  Marchmont  strong-minded, 
then,  perhaps  ?'  he  said. 

'No,  not  strong-minded.' 


ation  to  me,  ajid  twist  my  own  passions  to  serve 
your  purpose?' 

And  then  she  paltered  with  her  conscience. 

'Do  you  consider  that  it  is  my  duty  to  do  this  ?' 

she  asked. 

'My  dear  Mrs.  Marchmont,  most  decidedly.' 

1      'I  will  do  it,  then.     I — I — wish  to  do  my  duty.' 

I      'And  you  can  perform  no  greater  act  of  charity 

]  than    by  bringing  this   unhappy  girl  back  to  a 


•My  dear  Mrs.  Marchmont,  you  deal  in  para- :  sense  of  A«-  duty.  Remember  that  her  reputa 
doxes,'  exclaimed  the  artist.  'You  say  that  your  :  lion,  her  future  happiness,  may  fall  a  sacrifice  to 
step-daughter  is  neither  weak-minded  nor  strong-  •  this  foolish  conduct,  which,  I  regret  lo  say,  is 
minded?'  very  generally  known  in  the  neighborhood.    For- 

•Weak  enough,  perhaps,  to  be  easily  influenced  i  give  me,  if  I  express  my  opinion  too  freely  ;  but 
by  other  people  ;  weak  enough  to  believe  any  ■  i  cannot  help  thinking  that  if  Mr.  Arundel's  in- 
thing  ray  cousin  Edward  Arundll  might  choose  to  J  tcntions  had  been  strictly  honorable,  he  w.ould 
tell  her;  but  not  what  is  generally  called  defi-  }  have  written  to  you  before  this,  to  tell  you  that 
cient  in  intellect.'  ;  his  search  for  the  missing  girl  had  failed  ;  or,  in 

'You  think  her  perfectly  able  to  take  care  of ;  the  event  of  his  finding  her,  he  would  have  taken 
herself?'  }  the  earliest  opportunity  of  bringing  lier  back  tO' 

•Yes  ;  I  think  so. '  {her  own  home.     My  poor  cousin's  somewhat  un- 

•And' yet  this  running  away  looks  almost  as  |  protected  position,  her  wealth,  and  her  inexpe- 
if—but  I  have  no  wish  to  force  any  unpleasant  j  rience  of  the  world-  place  her  at  the  mercy  of  a. 
belief  upon  you,  my  dear  madam.     1  think— as  ;  fortune-hunter  ;  and  Mr.  Arundel  has  himself  to 
you   yourself  appear  to   suggest— that   the  best  |  thank  if  his  conduct  gives  rise  to  the  belief  that 
thing  we  can  do  is  to  get  this  poor  girl  home  ;  he  wishes  to  compromise  this  girl  in  the  eyes  of 
a"-ain  as  quickly  as  possible.     IL  will  never  do  for  'the  scandalous,  and  thus  make  sure  of  your  con- 
the  mistress  of  Marchmont  Towers.to  be  wander- I  sent  to  a  marriage  v/hich  would  give  him  com- 
ing about  the  world  with  Mr.  Edward  Arundel,  i  mand  of  my  cousin's  fortune.' 
Pray  pardon   me,  Mrs.  Marchmont,  if  I  speak  j     Olivia  Marchmont's  bosom  heaved  with  the- 
i  rather  disrespectfully  of  your  cousin  ;  but  I  really  ;  stormy  beating   of  her  heart.     Was   she  to  sit 
',  can  not  think  that  the  gentleman  has  acted  very!  calmly  by  and  hold   her  peace  while  thre  ma» 
i  honorably  in  this  business.'  '  slandered  the  brave  young  soldier,  the  bold,reck- 

;'  Olivia  was  silent.  She  remembered  the  pas- i  less,  generous-hearted  lad,  who  had  shone  upon 
'•  gicnate  indignation  of  the  young  soldier,  the  an-  J  her  out  of  the  darkness  of  her  life,  as  the  very 
'  erv  defiance  hurled  at  her,  as  Edward  Arundel  }  incarnation  of  all  that  is  noble  and  admirable  in 
'  callopcd  away  from  the  gaunt  western  facade.  !  mankind  ?  Was  she  to  sit  quietly  by  and  hear  a 
■"  She  remembered  these  things,  and  involuntarily  ;  stranger  lie  away  her  kinsman's  honor,  and  truth,* 
*•■  contrasted    them  with   the  smooth  ftlandness  of :  and  manhood  ? 

r  Paul  Marchmont's  talk,  and  the  deadly  purpose  Yes,  she  must  do  so.  This  man  had  ofiiered 
^' lurking  ben««th  it — of  which    deadly   purpose  1  her  a  price  for  her  truth  and  her  sowl.     He  wan 


JOHiX   MAACHWONT'ia  LS(JACY. 


78 


K&^J  to  help  her  to  the  revenge  she  longed  for, ; 
He  was  ready  to  give  her  his  aid  in  separating  j 
the  innocent  young  lovers,  whose  pure  aliectioD 
had  poisoned  her  life,  whose  happiness  was  worst  ■ 
than  the  worst  death  to  her.  She  kept  silent, 
therefore,  and  v/aited  for  Paul  to  speak  again." 

'I  will  go  up  to  Town  to-morrow,  and  set.  to 
work  about  this  husinefs,' the  artist  said,  as  he- 
rose  to  take  leave  of  Mrs.  Marchmont  ;  'I  do  not  - 
believe  that  I  shall  have  much  difliculty  in  find- 
ing the  young  lady's  hiding-place.     My  first  task< 
shall  be  to  look  for  Mr.  Arundel.     You  can  per-' 
haps  givA  me  the  address  of  some  place  in  London 
where  your  cousin  is  in  the  habit  of  staying?' 

'I  can.' 

'Thank  you  ;  that  will  very  tniich  simplify  mat- 
ters. I  shall  write  you  immediate  word  of  any 
discovery  1  make,  and  will  then  leave  all  the  rest 
,  to  you.  My  influence  over  Mary  Marchmont  as  i 
an  entire  strjanger  could  be  nothing.  Yours,  on  ' 
the  contrary,  must  he  unbounded.  It  will  be  for 
you  to  act  upon  my  letter. '  I 

Olivia  Marchmont  waited  for  two  days  and  | 
nights  for  the  promised  letter.  Upon  the  third  j 
morning  it  came.  The  artist's  epistle  was  very  / 
brief:  { 

*Mt  dear  Mrs.  Marchmont, — I  have  madrf  the  | 

necessary  dis-covery.     Miss  Marchmont  is  to  hei 

^ound  at  the  White  Hart  Inn,  Milldale,  near  Win-  / 

Chester.     May  L venture  to  urge  your  proceeding^ 

there  in  search  If  her  without  delay .'  > 

'Yours  very  faithfully,  / 

'PAnL  RIarchmowt.     j 

'OaiBKSTB  Bri)>Er,  Frmor  Equabg,  Aujt  U,'  ? 


CHAPTER  XX. 

RtSKK   FROM    THE    CRATE. 

TnE  rain  dripped  ceaselessly  upon  the  dreary 
earth  under  a  gray  November  sky — a  dull  and 
lowering  sky,  that  seemed  to  brood  OTcr  this 
lower  world  with  some  menace  of  coming  down 
to  blot  out  and  destroy  it.  The  express  train 
rushing  headlong  across  the  wet  Hats  of  Lincoln- 
shire glared  like  a  meteor  in  the  gray  fog  ;  the 
dismal  shriek  of  the  engine  was  like  the  cry  of 
a  bird  of  prey.  The  few  passengrrs  who  had 
ehosen  that  dreary  winter's  day  for  their  ti  avels, 
looked  despondfiitly  out  at  the  monotonous  pros- 
pect, seeking  in  rain  to  descry  some  spot  of  hope 
ih  the  joyless  prospect ;  or  made  futile  attempts 
to  read  their  ncwt^iapers  by  the  dim  light  of  the 
lamp  in  the  roof  of  the  carriage^.  Sulky  passeii- 
jers  shuddered  savagely  at  they  wrapped  thcin- 
i«lv«j  in  huge  woolen  rugs  or  ponderous  cover- 
ings made  from  the  skins  of  wild  beasts.  Mel- 
ancholy passengers  drew  groteiijue  and  hideous 
traveling-caps  ovt-r  <lieir  brows,  and,  coiling 
themselves  in  the  corner  of  tiieir  seats,  essayed  to 
•leep  away  th«  weary  hours.  Kvery  thing  upon 
this  earlh  seemed  dismal  and  damp,  cold  and 
desolate,  incongruous  and  uncomfortable.       • 

TCn  there  was  one  firsl-clnss  paysenger  in  that 
Lincolnshire  express  who  niaile  liintst;!/" <*s]ipci^llj 
obnoxious  to  his  fellows  bv  tlic  display  of  an 
amount  of  restlessness  and  superabundant  energy 
quite  out  of  keeping  with  thp  lazy  despondency  of 
n<nm  abwit  him. 


This  was  a  young  man  with  a  long  tawny  beard 
and  a  white  face — a  very  handsome  face,  though 
wan  and  attenuated,  as  if  with  some  terrible 
sickness,  and  soinevvhat  disfigured  by  certain 
strajipings  of  plaster,  which  were  bound  about  a 
patch  of  his  skull  a  little  above  the  left  temple. 
This  young  man  fiad  ihe  side  of  one  carriage  to 
hiniscif.  :^nd  a  sort  of  bed  had  been  made  up  for 
him  with  extrs^  cushions,  upon  which  he  lay  at 
full  length,  when  he  was  still,  which  was  never 
for  very  long  together.  He  was  enveloped  al- 
most to  the  chin  in  voluuainotts  railway-rugs,  but, 
in  spite  of  these  coverings,  sluuiilored  every  now 
and  then  as  if  with  cold.  He  had  a  pocket  pis- 
tol among  his  traveling  parnphernalia,  which  he 
applied  occasionally  to  hia  dry  lips.  Sometimes 
drops  of  perspiration  broke  suddenly  out  upon 
his  forehead,  and  were  brushed  away  by  a  tremu- 
lous hand,  that  was  scarcely  strong  enough  to 
hold  a  cambric  handkerchief.  In  bhort,  it  was 
sulficiently  obvious  to  every  one  that  this  young 
man  with  the  tawny  beard  had  only  lately  risen 
from  a. sick-bed,  and  had  risen  therefrom  con- 
siderably before  the  time  at  which  any  prudent 
medical  practitioner  would  have  given  him  li- 
cense to  do  so. 

It  was  evident  that  he  was  very,  very  ill,  but 
that  ho  was,  if  anything,  more  ill  at  ease  in  mind 
than  in  body,  and  that  some  terrible  gnawing 
anxiety,  some  restless  care,  some  horrible  uncer- 
tainty or  perpetual  foreboding  of  trouble,  would 
not  allow  him  to  be  at  peace.  It  was  as  much  as 
the  three  fellow-passengers  who  sat  opposite  to 
him  could  do  to  bear  with  his  impatience,  his 
restlessness,  his  short  half-slifled  moans,  his  long 
weary  sighs  ;  the  horror  of  his  fidgety  feet  shuf- 
fled incessantly  upon  the  cushions  ;  the  suddenly 
convulsive  jerks  with  which  he  would  lift  liim- 
self  upon  his  elbow  to  stare  fiercely  into  the  dis- 
mal fog  outside  the  carriage  windctw  ;  the  groans 
that  were  wrung  from  ^im  as  he  flung  himself 
into  new  and  painful  positions  ;  the  frightful  as- 
pect of  physical  agony  which  came  over  his  face 
as  he  looked  at  his  watch — and  he  drew  out  and 
consulted  that  ill  used  chronoiVietcr,  upon  an 
average,  once  in  a  quarter  of  an  hour  ;  his  impa- 
tient crumpling  of  the  crisp  leaves  of  a  new 
'Bradshaw,'  which  he  turned  over  ev.er  and 
anon,  as  if,  by  perpetual  reference  to  that  myste- 
rious time-table,  he  might  hasten  the  advent  of 
the  hour  at  which  he  was  to  reach  his  destina- 
tion. He  was,  altogether,  a  most  aggravating 
and  exasperating  traveling  companion  ;  an<l  it 
was  only  oul  of  Christian  forbearance  with  the 
weakness  of  his  physical  state  that  his  irritated 
fellow-passengers  restrained  from  milling  them- 
selves against  him,  and  casting  liiiii  bodily  oul  of 
the  window  of  the  carriage  ;'  as  a  clown  some- 
limes  flings  a  venerable  but  tiresome  pantaloon 
through  a  square  trap  or  pitfall,  lurking,  un- 
dreamed of,  in  the  fajade  "of  an  honest  trades- 
man's dwelling. 

The  three  passengers  had,  in  divers  manners, 
expressed  their  sympathy  with  the  invalid  trav- 
eler ;  but  their  courtesies  had  not  been  responded 
to  with  Jiny  eviflenre  of  gratitude  or  heartiness. 
The  young  man  had  answered  them  in  an  absent 
fashion,  scarcely  deigning  tO  look  at  them  as  he 
spoke,  f-pcakiiig  nlto<reter  with  the  nirof  some 
sleep-walker,  who  r/unis  hither  and  thither  ab- 
sorbeil  in  a  ilrendfiil  dream*,  making  a  world  for 
hims''lf,  and  peopling  it  with  horrible  images  un- 
known to  those  about  him. 

Hail  li«  b*Rn  ill?    Yei,  rery  ill.     He  K«'l  had 


so  J©HN  MAACHMOXT'S  LEGACY 

a  rallwar  accident,  and  then  brain-forer.  He' answer  to  his  attendant's  oon»rit«latory  tiMdrcsi^ 
had  bcen'ill  for  a  long  time.  ]  'Get  me  a  ily  directlj.     I  must  go  id  the  Towers 

Somcbodj  a»ked  him  liow  long?  '  at  once.'  , 

Ho    shulileil    about    upon    th»    cushions,  andj      'Not  to-night,  Sir,  f^urely  ?' the  servant  remon-    * 
jcroaned  nioud  at  this  question,  to  the  alarm  oi|  stritsd,  in  a  tone  of  aiarni.     'Your   Mar  and  the 
thft  man  who  haul  asked  it.  j  tloctors  said  you  vxuU  rest  at  Swampington  for  a 

'How   longr'  he    cried,   in    a  fcrce  a^ony  ofiniirht.' 
mental  or  bodily  uneasiness  ;  'how  long?    Twoj      'I'll  rest  nowhere  till  I've  been  to  Marchmont 
months — threa  montks — cvor   lince  the   14th  of!  Towers,'  answered  the  young  soldier,  passion-    1 
August.'  '  ately.     'If  1  must   walk   there — if  I'm  to  drop 

Then  another  jpassenger,  looking  at  the  young' down  dead  on  tlie  road — I'll  go.  If  the  corn- 
man'*  Tcry  CTidcnt  lufierings  from  a  commercial,  fields  between  this  and  the  Tov.'fcrs  were  a  bla7.- 
point  of  view, aiked  him  whether  he  had  had  any  j  ing  prairie  or  a  raging  sea,  I'd  go.  Get  me  a 
compensation.  "  '  fly,  man  ;  and  don't  talk  to  me  of  my  mother  or    \ 

'Compeniation!'    cried    the    invalid.      'What',  the  doctors.     I'bi  going  to  look  for  my  wife.  Get    i 
compensation!'  ^  J  me  a  fly.' 

'Compeniation  from  the  Railway  Company.  I^'  '  This  demand  for  a  commonplace  hackney  vehi- 
hope  you'veastrongcase  against  them, for  you've^  cle  sounded  rather  like  an  anti-climax,  after  tiio 
evidently  been  a  terrible  sufTerer.'    _  ,  young  man's  talk  of  blazing  prairies  and  raging 

It  was  dreadful  to  see  the  way  in  which  the 'seas;  but  passionate  reality  has  no  ridiculous 
sick  man  writhed  under  this  question.  '  side,  and  Edward  Arundel's  most  foolish  words 

'Compensation!'  lie  cried.     'What  compensa-(  were  sublimfe  hy  reason  of  their  earnestness, 
tioa  can  they  giv;e  rae  for  an  accident  that  shutf      'Get  me  a  fly,  Morrison,'  he  said,  grinding  his 
me  in  a  living  grave  for  three  months,  that  sepa-J  heel  upon  the  platform  in  the  intensity  of  his  im-    . 
rated  me  from —     You  don't  know  what  you're|  patience.     'Or,  stay,  we  should  gain  more  in  the 
talking  about,  Sir,'  he  added,  suddenly  ;  'l-can'tj  end  if  we  wore  to  go  to  tht  George — it's  not  ten    : 
think  of  this  business  patiently;  I  can't  be  rea-!  minutes' w.alk  from  here  ;  one  of  the  porters  will    j 
sonable.  If  they'd  liacked  me  to  pieces,  I  shouldn't)  take  you — the  pcople'there  know  me,  and  they'll    ', 
have  cared.     I've  been  under  a  rel-hot  Indian  sun  J  let  you  have  some  vehicle,  with  a  pair  of  horses    J 
when  we  fellowi  couldn't  see  the  sky  above  us  j  and  a  clever  driver.     Tell   them  it's  for  an  gt- 
for  the  smoke  of  the  cannoni  and  the  flashing  of'  rand  of  life  and  death,  and  that  Captain  Arunlcl 
the  sabres  about  our  heads,  and  I'm  not  afraid  of^  will  pay  them  three  times  their  usual  price,  or 
a  little  cutting  and   smashing  more  or  less;  but^six  times,  if  they  wish.     Tell  them  any  thing,  so 
when    I   think   what   others    may  have  »ulli»red.'|  long  as  you  get  what  v,-e  want.'" 
through — I'm  almost  mad,  and — '  ;|     The  valet,  an  old  servant  of  Edward  Arundel's    ; 

He  couldn't  laj  any  more,  for  the  intensity  of/Ifathcr,  was  carried  away  by  the  young  man's 
his  passion  had  shaken  him  as  a  leaf  is  shaken  by  Jiiad  impetuosity.  The  vitality  of  this  broken- 
a  whirlwind  ;  and  he  fell  back  upon  the  cushion*!,!- down  invalid,  wliosc  physical  weakness  con- 
trembling  in  every  limb,  and  groaning  aloud. '/ trsstcd  strangely  with  his  mental  energy,  b*oi? 
His  fellow-passengers  looked  at  each  other  rather;  down  upon  the 'grave  man-servant  like  an  ava-  . 
nervously,  and  two  out  of  the  three  entertained' lanche,  and  carried  him  whither  it  would.  He 
serious  thoughts  of  changing  carriages  when  the;  was  fain  to  abandon  all  hope  of  being  true  to  the 
express  stopped  midway  between  London  and 'promises  which  he  had  given  to  Mrs.  Arundi-1 
Lincoln.  iand  the  medical  men,  and  to  yield  himself  to  the 

But  they  were  reassured  by-and-by  ;  for  the  in-  J  will  of  the  (iery  young  soldier, 
valid,  who  was  Captain  Edward  Arundel,  or  that '  He  left  Edward  Arundel  sitting  upon  a  chair 
pale  shadow  of  the  dashing  young  cavulry  officer  Jin  the  solitary  waiting-room,  and  hurraed  afler 
which  had  risen  from  a  sick-bed,  relapsed  into  J  the  porter  who  had  volunteered  to  show  him  the 
silence,  and  displayed  no  more  alarmmg  symp- 5  way  to  the  George  Inn,  the  most  prosperous  hot  I 
toms.than  that  pcr()etual  restlessness  and  disqui'e-' in  Swampington. 

tude  which  is  crMclly  wearying  even  to  the f  The  valet  had  good  reason  to  be  astonished  by 
strongest  nerv«s.  He  only  spoke  once  more,  and  J  his  young  master's  energy  and  determination  ;  for 
that  was  when  the  short  day,  in  which  there  had  ',  Mary  Marchmont's  husband  was  as  one  rescurd 
l)een  no  actual  daylight,  was  closing  in,  and  the  }  from  the  very  jaws  of  death.  For  twelve  we(;l<s 
journey  nearly  finuhed,  when  he  startled  his  com- /  after  that  terrible  concussion  upon  the  Soutti- 
paiiions  by  crjing  cwit,  suddenly,  •  western  Railway,  Edward  Arundel  had  lain  i»  n 

•O  my  Qod,  wi]l  this  journey  never  come  to  an  state  of  coma — heljiless,  mindless  ;  all  the  stoiy 
end?  Shall  1  never  be  put  out  of  this  liorrible  i  of  his  life  blotted  away,  and  his  brain  tran>formed 
suspense?'  j  into  as  blank  a  pa^e-as  if  he  had  been  an  infani 

The  journey,  oif,  at  any  rata, Captain  Arundel's  j  lying  on  liis  motlier's  knees.  A  fractured  skull  • 
(>harc  of  it,  cams  t(5  an  «nd  almost  immediately  <  had  been  the  young  Captais's  chief  share  i 
afterwaTd,  for  the  tmin  stopped  at  Swamping- j  those  injurit'S  wiiich  were  dealt  out  pretty  fret-: 
ton  ;  and  while  the  iirralid  was  staggering  feebly  Uo  the  travelers  in  the  E:^etcr  mail  on  the  14th 
1o  hif  fcrt,  eajer  to  scramble  out  of  the  carriage,  i  August ;  and  the  young  man  had  been  convev. 
}iis  servant  camf  to  the  door  1o  assist  andsup-ito  Dangerfield  Park,  vi'hiie  his  father's  cor|i 
po-t  him.  ■  .  • 'ny  in  stately  solemnity  in  one  of  the  chief  rooms, 

'You  seem  to  kav  borne'  ll^e  jn'.jrncy  "vondcr-  almost  as  much  a  corpse  as  tiiat  dead  father.  • 
fid.  Sir,' the  man' Haid,  respoctfdlly,  as  hetricf!'     'Mrs.    y\runders    troubles    had.ftomc,   as    tl  " 
to  rwarr^nfe  his  mastsr'fi  wrappings,  and  to  do  asi  trouble*  of  rich  and  prosperous   people   often  i 
much    as   cii^umstajices,   and    llie  yoting  man's;  c.orne,  in  a  sudden  avalanche,  that  Ihieatened  ; 
lestless   impa'tiencff  would   allow  of  being  done  ,  overwhelm  the  tender-hearted,  matron.     She  bait 
for  his  comfort.  "  \  been  summoned    from    Germany   to   attend   Ik  r 

'  •!  have  sulFereJ  the  tortures  of  the  infernal  r^-J  husband's  death  bed  ;  and  she  was  called  away 
glions,  Morrisom,' Ca'pfoin  Arundel  e.jar.ulatp<l,  iol  from  her  faithful  watch    beside   that  desth-be<l, 

• 


JOHN    MARCHMONT'3   I.EGACY.  81 

to  liear  tidincii.s  of  the  terrible  accident  that  had  '•-,  mother's  mourning  gsnnents  were  worn  in  mem- 
hefallfn  her  younsrer  son.  *  <oryof  his  dead  father.     He  learned  also,  after 

'Neither  the  .Dorsetshire  doctor  who  attended ';  much  bewilderment  and  passionate  questioning, 
the  stricken  iravelerupon  his  homeward  journey,  ;  that  no  tidings  of  Mary  Marchmont  had  ever 
and  jroiiirht  the  strong  man,  helpless  as  a  child. 'come  to  Dangerheld. 

to  claim  the  same  tender  devotion  that  had  ^  It -was  llicn  tliat  the  young  man  told  his  mother 
watched  over  his  inCniicy.  nor  tlie  Devonshire  ;  the  story  of  hii  mai'riage  ;  how  that  marriage  had 
doctors  who  were  sumni'^ned  to  Dangerfield,.;  been  contracted  in  haste-,  but  vt'ilh  no  real  ^esirc 
gave  any  hope  of  their  patient's  recovery.  The  for  secresv  ;  how  he  had,  out  of  mere  idlene&p, 
sufferer  might  linger  for  years,  they  said  ;  hut  his  put  ofT  v/riting  to  his  friends  until  that  last  fatal 
existence  wouhl  bo  only  a  living  death,  a  hcrri- ;  right  ;  and  how,  at  the  very  moment  when  the 
blc  blank,  which  it  was  a  cruelty  to  wish  pro-^  pen  was  in  his  hand  ;ind  the  paper  spread  out  be- 
longed. But  when  a  great  London  surgeon  ap- <  fore  him*the  uifferent  claims  of  a  double  duly 
peared  upon  the  scene,  a  new  light,  a  wonderful ';  had  lorn  hira  asunder,  and  he  had  been  sum- 
gleam  of  hope,  shone  jn  upon  llio  blackness  of:inoned  from  the  coniijanionship  of  his  bride  to 
the  mother's  .despair.  ,  ;  the  deathbed  of  ills  father. 

This  great  London  surgeon,  who  was  a  very:  Mrs.  Arundel  tried  in  vain  to  set  her  son's 
unassuming  and  matter-of-fact  little  man,  and;  mind  at  rest  upon  the  subject  of  his  wife's 
who  seemed  in  a  great  hurry  tp  earn  his  fee  and    silence. 

run  back  to  Saville  Ro'.v  by  the  next  express,  'No,  mother !' he  cried  ; 'it  is  useless  talking  to 
made  a  brief  examination  of  the  patient,  asked  ;  me.  You  don't  know  my  poor  darling.  She  has 
a  very  few  sharp  and  trenchant  questions  of  the .;  iho  conrage'of  a  heroins  as  well  as  tlic  simplicity 
reverential  provincial  medical  practitioners,  and  '  of  a  ciild.  There  ha^  been  some  foul  play  at 
then  declared  that  the  chief  cause  of  Edward  the  bottom  of  this  ;  it  is  treachery  (hat  has  "tc[  t 
Arundel's  state  lay  in  the  fact  that  a  portion  of  my  wil'e  from  me.  tihi;  would  Imvc  come  lieie 
the  skull  was  depressed — a  splinter  pressed  upon  on  foot  had  blie  been  free  to  come.  1  know 
the  brain,  whosr   hand  is  in  this  business-     Olivia  March- 

The  provincial  practitioners  opened  their  eyes  mont  h?-s  kept  my  poor  girl  a  prisoner;  Olivia 
very  wide  ;  and  one  of  them  ventured  to  mutter,  Ma-chmont  has  set  herself  between  me  and  my 
something  u->  the  effect  that  he  had  thought  as    darling!' 

much  for  a  long  time.  The  London  i,.jrge<jifi  fur-;  <Hut  vcu  don't  know  this,-  EdwarL  I'll  write 
ther  stated,  that  until  the  pressure  wasixmoved  (to  Mr.  PauiiMte  ;  he  will  he  able  to  te!l  us  what 
from  the  patient's  brain,  Captain  Edward   Arun-5has  happened.' 

del  would  remain  in  precisely  the  same  state  as  |  The  young;  man  writhed  in  a  paroxysm  of  men- 
that  into  which^ie  had  fallen  immediately  upon  f  tal  agony. 

the  accident.  The  splinter  could  only"he  vc-5  'Write  to  Mr.  Paulelle !'  he  exclaimed.  'No, 
moved  by  a  very  criticpl  operation,  and  Uiis  ope-  \  mother  ;  tlii;re  shall  ha  no  delay,  no  wailing  for 
ration  must  be  deferred  mtil  the  patient's  uodily  ;. retTirn  posts.  That  sort  o!' torture  v.'oul,l  k..l  me 
strength  was  in  some  measure  restored.  \     'i'inafew  hours.     No,  mother;  I  will   go  to  my 

'■•■STlie  surgeon  gave  brief  but  decisive  directions  j,  wife  by  the  first  train  that  will  t.tke  me  on  my 
to  the  provincial  medical  men  as  to  the  treatment  •;  way  to  Lincolnshire' 

of  their  patisnt  during  this  interregnum,  and  then  '  'You  will'  go  !  You,  Edv;^ard  !  in  voi-r  slate!' 
departed,  al'ler  promising  to  return,  as  soon  as  "1  There  was  a  terrible  outburst  of  remonstrance 
Captain  Arund"!  vvas  in  a  fit  state  for  the  o^ern- -'and  entreaty  on  the  part  of  the  poi>j-  mothrr. 
tion.  This  period  did  not  arrive  till  the  first  ■  Mrs.  ArundVl  went  down  upon  her  l.nR<>s  hefote 
week  in  November,  when  the  Devonshire  doc- >  her  son,  imploring  him  not  to  leave  Dang,  rfield 
tors  ventured  to  declare  their  patient's  sinttered  '■'.  till  his  strength  was  recovered;  imploring  liim  to 
frame  in  a  great  measure  renovated  by  their  de-  -;  lot  her  telegraph  a  summons  to  Richard  I'auJtltp; 
voted  attention,  qnd  the  tender  care  of  the  best  Uo  let  her  go  liorsclf  fo  M-.trchmont  'I'owcrs  in 
of  mothers.  ■' search   of  Mary;   to   do   any   thing  rather  iban 

'•he  great  surgeon  came.    The  critical  opera- j,  carry  out  that  one  ina-l  purpo-<e  that  he  -va*  hert 
lion  was  performed.  With  such  eminent  success  as;  on — the  purpos^e  of  going  himse'f  to  look  (or  his 
to  merit  a  very  long  description  which  afterward  ',  wife, 
appeared    in    the    Lanccl  ;   and    slowly,    hketbc;      The  nothir's  tears  aTid  prayers  were  vain  :  no 

■   ■■*'  "  adamarvt  was  ever  firmer  Than  the  joiing  solc!ier. 

'She  is  mj   wife,   mother,'  he   sail  ;    'I  lisve 
sworn   to  protect  and   cherish   her  ;  and   I  bSve 


reason  to  think  "'■■c  ha*  fal'cn  into  merciless 
hands.  Jf  Tdie  upon  the  road,  1  mu<t  go  to  her. 
It  is  not  a  castf  in  which  1  can  do  my  duty  by 
prcxy.  Every  moment  I  delay  is*  wrong  to  that 
poor  helpless  girl.  Re  reasonable,  dt-ar  mother, 
1  implore  you  ;  I  .uliould  suffer  titty  limes  moie 
by  the,  torture  of  siispeu'C   if   I  staid  here,  than  I 


gradual  liftin.:  of  a  curtain,  the  black  shadows 
passed  away  from  Edward  Arundel's  mind,  and 
the  memory  of  the  past  returned  to  liiin. 

It  was  ihen  that  he  raved  madly  about  his 
youna  wife,  perpelually  demanding  thot  she 
mighi  be  summoned^  to  him  ;  continually  declar- 
ing that  some  great  misfort-unc  would  befall  her 
\(  she  were  not  brought  to  his  side,  lliDt,  even  in 
his  feebleness,  he  might  dofend  and  pr-jtect  hfiv 
His  moihfr  mist'iok  tiii  vehemence  for  the  laviiig 

of  delirium.    'l"he  doctors  fell  into  the  same  error.  »can  potsihiy  suffer  in  a  r»ilroad  journey  from  here 
and    treated    him  for   brain-fever.     It  was  ofily  ;|  to  Lincolnshire.' 

when  the  youn^  soldier  demonslrated  l,jtirem;!  The  soldier's  strong  will  triumphed  over  every 
that  he  couid,  by  making  an  effort  over  himself,  ;i  opposition.  The  provmcial  doctors  held  up  their 
be  as  reasonable  as  they  were,  Ih.at  h".  convinced  hands,  and  protested  against  the  madne^^s  of  their 
them  of  their  mistake.  Then  he  begp;rd  to  be  ■;  patient  ;  hni  without  avail.  All  that  either  Mr«. 
left  alone  with  his  mother  ;  and,  with  his  fcvr- j  Arundel  or  the  doctors  could  do  was  to  make 
ish  hanrjs  clasped  in  her-,  asked  her  the  meaning  j  such  preparaficns  and  arrangements  as  would 
of  her  black  dress,  apd  the  reason  why  his  young  •  render  the  weary  journey  easier  ;  and  it  was  tm- 
wife  had'not  come  to  him.  He  learned  that  his  lirr  the  mother's  superintendence  that  the  air 
11 


33 


JOflN   MARCHMONT'S  LEGACY. 


cushions,  1b«  brandy-flasks,  the  kartshorn,  sal] 
Tolatilc,  and  iailway-rug»  had  been  proTiJed  for  j 
the  Captain's  coutfort.  j 

Jt  was  thus  that,  after  a  blanit  iDt«rTal  of  three 
months,  Edward  Arundel,  like  some'  creature 
newiy  risen  from  th«  grare,  returnad  to  Swamp- 
irij;to"n,  upon  his  way  to  Marchmont  Towers. 

The  delay  se- ned  endless  to  this  restless  pas- 
genger,  sitting  in  the  empty  waiting-room  of  the 
qif'  t  Lincolnshire  station,  though  the  hostler  and 
ti  ••-boys  at  the  George  were  bestirring  them- 
T  ■'  od-will,  urged  on  by  Mi .  Morriijon 'a 
of  liberal  reward  for  their  ti'Juble,  and 
Uiou.  .  ibe  man  who  was  to  drive  the  carriage 
lost  no  time  in  arraying  himself  for  the  journey. 
Captain  Arundel  looked  at  bis  watch  three  times 
whiie  he  sat  in  that  dreary  Swarapington  wait- 
ing-room. There  was  a  clock  orer  the  mantle- 
piece,  but  he  would  not  trust  to  that. 

'Eight  o'clock!'  he  muttered.  'It  will  be  ten 
before  I  get  to  the  Towers,  if  the  carriage  doesn't 
come  directly.  * 

He  got  up,  and  walked  from  tho  waiting-room 
to  the  platform,  and  from  the  platform  to  the 
door  of  the  station.  He  was  so  weak  k.  to  be 
obliged  to  support  hims.  f  with  his  stick;  and 
even  with  that  help  he  tottered  and  reeled  somc- 
tiiiips  like  a  drunken  mai..  But,  in  his  eager 
iirif.atience,  he  was  almost  unconscious  of  his 
own  v/eakness,  unconscious  of  nearly  every  thing 
except  the  intolerable  slowness  of  the  progress  of 
time. 

'Will  it  never  con  j?'  he  muttered.  'Will  it 
never  comer' 

Cut  even  this  almost  unendurable  delay  was  not 
quite  inlerminabie.  The  carriage-and-pair  from 
the  George  Inn  rattled  up  to  the  door  of  the  sta- 
tion, ■nith  Mr.  Morrison  upon  the  box,  and  a 
postillion  loosely  balanced  upon  one  of  the  long- 
legged,  long-backed,  bony  gray  horses.  Edw-ird 
Arundel  got  into  the  vehicle  before  his  valet 
'could  alight  to  assist  him. 

' Mil rchmont  Towers! '  he  cried  to  the  postil- 
lion ;'  :'nd  a  five-pound  note  if  you  get  there  in 
lif»  Uiai>  an  hour  !' 

Re  Sung  some  money  to  the  officials  who  had 
gathered  absut  the  door  to  witness  his  departure, 
and  v/ho  had  eagerly  pressed  forward  to  render 
him  that  assistance  which,  even  in  his  weakness, 
he  disdiintd. 

These  men  looked  gravely  at  each  other  as  the 
carriage  difhed  off  into  the  fog,  blundering  and 
reeling  as  it  went  along  the  narrow  half-made 
road,  that  Jed  from  the  desert  patch  of  waste 
ground  upon  which  the  station  was  built  info  the 
hs^h  street  of  Swampington. 

\Marchmont  Towers!'  s-JA  one  of  the  men,  in 
a  tone  that  seemed  to  imply  that  ibere  wassome- 
ihivfr  ominous  even  in  the  name  of  the  Lincoln- 
shire mansion.  'What  does  he  want  at  March- 
moiil  Towrrs,  I  wonder?' 

'Why,  don't  you  iiiow  who  he  is,  mate?' re- 
?pundcd  the  other  man,  contemptuously. 

•No.' 

•He'i  Parson  Arundel's  nevy — the  young  ofBcer 
that  some  folks  laid  ran  away  with  poor  young 
misBOop  at  the  Towers-' 

'My  word !  is  he,  now?  Why,  I  shouldn't  ha' 
known  him,' 

'No  ;  he's  a'most  like  the  ghost  of  what  he 
was,  poor  you»g  chap !    I've  heerd  as  he  was  in 
that  accident  as  happened  laat  August  on  the 
Sou 'western.' 
The  railway  official  shrugged  his  shoulders. 


'It's  all  ^  queer  story,'  he  said.  'I  can't  make 
cut  naught  about  it ;  but  I  know  /shouldn't  care 
to  go  up  to  the  Towers  after  dark.' 

Marchmont  Towers  had  evidently  fallen  into 
r»ther  evil  repute  among  these  simple  Lincoln- 
shire people. 

The  carriage  in  which  Edward  Arundel  rode 
was  a  superannuated  old  chariot,  whose  uneasy 
springs  rattled  and  shook  the  sick  man  to  pieces. 
He  groaned  aloud  every  now^  and  then  from  sheer 
phyiical  agony;  and  yet  1  almost  d  .u'jt  if  be 
knew  that  he  suffered,  so  superior  in  its  intensity 
was  the  pain  of  his  mind  to  every  bodily  torture. 
Whatever  consciousness  he  had,of  his  racked  and 
aching  limbs  was  as  nothing  in  comparison  to  the 
racking  anguish  of  suspense,  the  intolerable 
agony  oC  anxiety,  which  seemed  multiplied  by 
every  moment.  He  sat  with  his  face  turned  to- 
ward the  open  window  of  the  carriage,  looking 
out  steadily  into  the  night.  There  \vas  nothing 
before  him  but  a  blank  darkness  and  thick  fog, 
and  a  flat  country  blotted  out  by  the  falling  rain; 
but  he  strained  his  eyes  until  the  pupils  dilated 
painfully,  in  his  desire  to  recognize  some  land- 
mark in  the  hidden  prospect. 

'}Fhen  shall  I  get  there?'  he  crie^  aloud,  in  a 
paroxysm  of  rage  and  grief.  'My  own  one,  my 
pretty  one,  my  vifc,  when  shall  I  get  to  you?' 

He  clenched  his  thin  hands  until  the  nails  cut 
into  his  flesh.  He  stampel  upon  the  floor  of  the 
curriage.  He  cursed  the  rusty,  creaifjng  springs, 
the  slow-footed  horses,  the  pools  of  water  througli 
which  the  wretched  animals  flojindered  pastern- 
deep.  He  cursed  the  darkness  of  the  night,  the 
stupidity  of  the  postillion,  the  length  of  the  way — 
every  thing  and  any  thing  that  kept  him  back 
from  the  end  which  he  wanted  to  reach. 

At  last  the  end  came.  The  carriage  drew  up 
before  the  tall  iron  gat^es,  behind  .vhich  stretched, 
dreary  and  desolate  as  some  patch  of  common- 
land,  that  melancholy  waste  which  was  called  a 
park. 

A  light  burned  dimly  in  the  lower  window  of 
the  lodge — a  little  spot  that  twinkled  faintly  red 
and  luminous  hroughthe  darkness  and  the  rnin  : 
but  the  iron  gates  were  as  ^losely  shut  as  if 
Marchmont  lowers  had  been  a  prison-house. 
Edward  Arundel  was  m  no  humor  to  linger  long 
for  the  opening  of  those  gates.  He  sprang  from 
the  carilagc,  reckless  of  the  weakness  m  his 
cramped  limbs,  before  the  valet  could  descend 
from  the  rickety  box-sent,  or  the  postillion  could 
get  olj"  his  horse,  rr..-  .hook  the  wet  and  rusty 
iron  bars  with  his  v/asted  hands.  The  gales  rat- 
tled, but  resisted  the  concussion.  They  had  evi- 
dently been  locked  for  the  night.  The  young 
man  seized  an  iron  ring,  dangling  at  the  end  of  a 
chain,  which  hung  beside  one  of  the  stonef)illars, 
and  rang  a  peal  that  resofinded  like  an  alarm- 
signal  through  the  darkness.  A  fierce  watch-dog 
far  away  in  the  distance  howled  dismally  at  the 
summons,  and  the  dissonant  shriek  of  a  peacock 
echoed  across  the  flat. 

'  The  door  of  the  lodge  was  opened  about  five 
minutes  after  the  bell  had  run^,  and  an  old  man 
peered  out  into  the  night,  holding  a  candle  shaded 
by  his  feeble  hand,  and  looking  suspiciously  to- 
ward the  gate. 

'Who  is  it?'  he  said. 

'  It  is  I — Captain  Arundel,  ©pen  the  gate, 
please.' 

The  man,  who  was  very  old,  and  whose  intel- 
lect seemed  to  have  grown  as  dim  and  foggy  as 


JOHN  MARCH  MONT'S  LEGACY. 


the  nigiil  itself,  reflected  for  a  few  moments,  and   tried  to  recorer  enough  «(rength  with  which  lo 
then  mumbled,  clamber  into   the    vejiiolc,   when   his    eye   was 

'Cap 'en  Arundel!  ay,  to  be  sure,  to  be  sure,  caught  by  some  white  object  ilapping  in  the  raiu 
Parnon  Arundel's  nevy  ;  ay,  ay.'  .   ;  against  the  itone  pillar  of  the  gate,  and  made 

He  vr-ent  back  into  the  lodge,  to  the  disgust  and  :  dimly  visible  in  a  flickering  patch  of  light  from 
aggravation   of  the   young   soldier,  who  rattled  ;  the  lodge-keeper's  lantern. 

fiercely  at  the  gate  ouce  more  in  his  ijupatience.  :      'VVhat^s  that !'  he  cried,  pointing  to  thii  white 
But  the  old  man  emerged  presently,  as  tranquil  as   spot  upoii  the  moss-grown  itone. 
if  the  El"ck  November  night  had  been  some  sun- 
shiny  noiHitide  in  July,  carrying  a  lantern 
bunch  of  keys,  one  of  which  he  proceedec 
leisurely  manner  to  apply  to  the  great  lock  v,.  .,.», ,  ,ui  c.     i  um  young  jauy  :     i  nai,  s  me  prir 

gate.  .    ,    ,^ ,        ,     »       J  ,      .         )  ^'  ^'^^y  "too"^  o«P-     -l^'"  ^''c  printed   biurto'be 

'Let  me  in,^  cried  hdward  Arundel;  'man  ;  sure,  to  be  sure.  I'd  a'most  forgot  it  It  ain't 
a.live,  do  you  think  I  came  down  here  to  stand  all '  been  muck  good,  any  how  ;  ^nd  I'd  a'most  for- 
night  staring  through  these  iron  bars?     Is  March- ;  got  it.' 

mont  Towers  a  prison,  that  you  shut  your  gates  :      «Tiic  printed  bill !  the  young  lady  i'  gainod  Ed- 
us  if  they  were  never  to  be  onencd  until  the  Day  :  ward  Arundel,  in  a  hoarse,  choking  voice 
of  Judgment?'  ,    ,      .^  •        ;      He  snatched  the  lantern  from  the  lodg'e-keen- 

The  old  man  responded  with  a  feeble,  chirpy  ;  er's  hand  with  a  force  that  sent  the  old  man  reel- 
laugh,  an  audible  grin,  senile  ard  conciliatory.     ;  ing  and  tottering  several  paces  backward  •  and 

'We've  no '.need  to  keep  t'  geates  oi)en  arter :  rushing  to  the  st-ne  pillar,  held  the  light  un 
dark,'  he  said  ;  'folk  don't  coome  to  the  Toowers;  above  his  head,  on  a  level  with  tho'white  placard 
arlerdark.'        ',  ^    .,.,.'.     ,  ^^    |  which  had  attracted  his  notice.    It'was  damp  and 

de  had  succeeded  by  tins  time  m  turning  the  J  dilapidated  at  the  edges;  but  that  which  was 
key  ill  the  lock  ;  one  of  the  gat;  ■  rolled  slowly ;  printed  upon  it  was  us  visible  to  the  soldier  as 
back  upon  iis  rusty  hinges,  creaking  and  groan- j  though  each  commonplace  character  had  been  a 
ing  as  if  in  hoarse  protest'  against  all  visitors  to  ;  fiery  sign  inscribed  upsn  a  blazing  scroll, 
the  Towers  ;  and  Edward  Arundel  entered  the  .  This  was  the  announcement  which  Edward 
dreary  domain  which  John  Marchmpnt  had  in- ;  Arundel  read  upon  the  gate-post  of  Marchmont 
herited  from  his  kinsman.  i  Towers  : 

,     The  postillion  turned  his  horse's  from  the  high;: 

road  without  the  gales  into  the  broad  drive  lead-;,  'One  Hundrid  Pounds  RitWAnD.— Whereas 
ing  up  to  the  mansion.  Far  away,  across  the  :  Miss  Mary  Marchmont  left  her  home' on  Wedn'ea- 
wct  flats,  the  broad  western  front  of  that  gaunt  j  day  last,  October  17th,  and  has  not  since  been 
stone  dwelling-place  frowned  upon  the  travulers,;  heard  of,  this  is  to  -ire  notice  that  the  above  re- 
its  black  gnmness  only  relieved  by  two  or  three;  ward  will  bo  given  to  any  one  who  shall  aflbrd 
dim  red  patches,  tha»told  of  lighted  windowis  and  ;  such  information  as  will  lead  to  her  recoverv  if 
human  habitation.  It  was  rather  diflicultto  as-<  '  '  "' 
socfate  friendly  fltjsh  a 
Towers  or  this  dark  i^ov 

vous  traveler  would  have  rallier  expected  to  find  ,  fair  compTexion,  light-brown  h air,  Vtid' '"hazel 
diabolical  denizens  lurking  within  those  black;  eyes.  When  she  left  her  home  she  had  on  a  gray 
and  stony  walks  ;  hideous  enchantments  beneath  <  silk  dress,  gray  shawl,  and  straw  bonnet.  She 
•lat  rain-bespattered  roof;  weird  and  incarnate  ;:  v.as  last  seen  near  the  river-side  upon  the  aftor- 
horrors  brooding  py  deserted  hearths  ;  and  fear-;  noon  of  Wednesday,  the  17th  instant, 
ful  shrieks  of  souls  in  perpetual  pain  breaking;  " •  JUHcaMoxi  Towbrs,  Oct.  59, 1S18  • 
upon  the  stillness  of  the  night.  '■ 

Edward   Arundel    had    no   thought    of   these;, 
things.     He  knew  that  the  place  was  darksome  J  ***  ~ 

and  gloomy,  and  that,  in  very  spite  of  hiniself, J 

he  had  always  been  unpleasantly  impressed  by  it,;;  CHAPTER  XXI.  . 

but  he  knew  nothing  more.  He  only  wanted  to^ 
reach  the  house  without  delay,  and  to  ask  for  the  i. 
young  wife   whom   he  had  parted  with  upon  a; 


was  rather  diflicult  to  as- <  she  be  alive,  or  to  tli*  discovery  of  her  body  if 
uid  blood  with  idarchraont;  she  be  dead.  Tiie  missing  youn^  lady  is  ciirhteen 
rovcmher  night.     The  ner-  <  years  of  age,  r.ither  below  the  middle  height,  of 


FACR  TO  PACE. 

It  is  not  easy  to  imagine  a  lion-heartod  young 


balmy  August  evening  three  months  before.  He;  cavalry-oflicer,  who:ic  soldiership  in  the  Punjaub 
wanted  this  passionately,  almost  madly;  and' had  Won  the  praises  of  a  Napier  and  an  Outrani, 
every  moment  made  his  impatience  wilder,  his;  fainting  away  like  a  heroine  of  romance  at  the 
anxiety  more  intense.  It  seemed  as  if  all  the  coming  of  evil  tidings?  but  Edward  Ar'nd''' 
j  ^urney  friui  Uangcifield  Park  to  LincDlnsiiire^  who  had  risen  from  a  sick-bed  to  take  j.Icu^- at. 
was  as  nothing  compared  to  the  rpace  that  stiil )  fatijaing  journey  in  utter  defiance  of  iho  doctors, 
lay  between  hun  and  Marchmont  Towers.  ',  was  not  stronjj  enough  to  be-nr  the  dreadful  v  j1- 

'Wn'vedonc  it  in  double-quick  time.  Sir,' the  J  como  that  greeted  liim  upon  the  gata-post  at 
postillion   ijaid,    complacently    pointing    to    the/ Marchmont  Towers.    ^  ^ 

steaming  sides  of  his  horses.     'Master  '11  gio  it)      He  staggered,  and  would  have  fallen,  had  Hot 
me  for  driving  the  beasts  like-this.'  (the  ex-teudcd  arms  of  iiis   father's  confidential 

Edward  Arundel    looked  at   the  panting  j«ini-|  servant  been  luckily  opened  to  receive  and  sup- 
nials.     They   had    brought  hiai    quickly,    then,  i  port  him.     But  he  did  not  lose  his  seiijca. 
though  the  way  had  seemed  s  )  long.  |     '  (Jet  me  into  the  carriage,  Morrison,'  ho  cried. 

'You  hhiill  have  a  five-poun  1  note,  my  lad,' ho  | '  Got  me  up  to  that  house.  They've  tortured 
Maid,  'if  yoa  get  me  up  to  yonder  house  iu  five!  and  tormented  my  wife  while  I've  '  "en  lying  like 
minutes.'  |  a  log  on  my  bed  at  Dangerheld.     i  or  God's  sake, 

He  had  his  hand  upon  the  door  of  the  carriage,  |  get  tne  up  thcro  as  quick  as  you  can.' 
aud  was  Icuuing  against  it  for  support,  while  lie  '     Mr-  Morrison  had  read  the  placard  on  the  gate 


g.,  JOIIM  MAKCllMOMT'S  LEGACiT. 

across  liis  vouug  irmstcr's  ■shoulder.  l(e  lifted  ,  profile  was  turned  toward  the  door  by  whicli 
the  Captain  into  the  carriage,  shouted  to  the  .  Edward  Arundel  entered  the  room;  her  ejes 
postilion  to  drive  on,  and  took  his  seat  by  the  were  bent  steadily  upon  the  low  heap  of  burning; 
younR  man's  side.  ;  ashes  in  the  grate.     Even  in  that  doubtful  light 

'Begging  your  pardon,  Mr.  Edward,'  he  said,  the  young  man  could  see  timt  her  feu iures  were 
cenUy;  '  but  the  young  lady  may  be  found  by  this  ;  sharpened,  and  thata  settled  frown  had  contracted 
time.  'That  bill's  been  sticking  there  (of  upward  '  her  straighl  black  br>ows. 

of  a  month,  jou  sec,  Sir,  and'it  isn't  likely  but  ,  In  her  fixed  attitude,  in  her  air  of  death-like 
what  Miss  Marchmont  has  been' found  hetwecn  tranquility,  this  woman  resembled  some  sinful 
that  time  and  this.'  vestal   sister;  set,   against  her  will,  to  watch  a 

The  invalid  passed  his  hand  across  his  fore-  sacred  tire,  and  brooding  moodily  over  her  crjmes. 
head,  down  which  the  cold  sweat  rolled  in  great-;  She  did  not  hear  the  opening  of  the  door;  she 
jjga(js.  ;  had  not  even  heard  the  trampitng.  of  the  horses' 

'Give  me  some  brandy,'  he  -  'li^pered;  '  pour  ■  hoofs,  or  the  crashing  of  the  wheels  upon  the 
some  brandv  down  mv  throat,  JNIorrison,  if  you've  ;  grave!  before  the  house.  There  were  times  when 
any  compassion  upon  we;  1  anuit  get  strength  ;  her  sense  of  external  things  was,  as  it  were,  syis- 
somehow  for  the  struggle  that  lieK  before  nic'        '  pended  and  absorbed  i.n  the  injLensiiy  of  her  obsti- 

Tbe  valet  took  a   wicker-covered  flask   from  ;  nate  despair, 
his  pocket,  and  put  the  neck  of  it  to  Edward;      '  Olivia  !' said  the  soldier. 

Arundel's  lips.  ■      ^ir«-  Marchmont  looked   up    at  the  sound  of 

•She  maybe  found.   Morrison,'  muttered  the  ;  tliat  accusing  voice,  for  there  was  something  in 
voung'man,  after  drinking  a  long  draught  of  the  ;  Ed  ward   Arundel'-s    simple    enunciation   of   her 
"fiery  spirit;  he  ■v^o'-'l'^  ■^^'""'"S^y  "^'^'''^ ''''"'^'^ '^^'^"?I  '  ""'^'^   which    seemed    like    an    accusation   or   a 
fire    itself,    in    Iv"^   desire    to    obtain    unnatural  '  mentice.     She  looked  up,  with  a  great  terror  in   • 
strength  in  tiiis  crisis.     'Ve»;  you're  right  there.  J  her  face,  and  stared  agliast  at  her  unexpected 
She  may  he  :found.     But  to  think  that  she  should  ;  visitor,     j^ler  white  cheeks,  her  treiiUjling  lips,     , 
have  been  driven  away  !     To  think  that  my  poor,  ■  and  dilated  eyes  could  not  have  more  palpably 
helpless,  tender  girl  should   have  been  driven  a  :  expressed  a  great  and  absorbinj  horror  had  the 
second  time  from  the  home  that  is  hoc  own  !  Yes;  '  young  man  standin-.';  quietly  before  her  been  a 
her  own  by  every  law  and  every  right.     Oh,  the    corpse  newly  risen  from  its  grave, 
relentless  devil, 'the  pitiless  dev'il ! — what  can  be  ^      'Olivia    Marchmont,'   said    Captain   Arundel, 
the  motive  of  her  conduct .-     Is  it  madness,  or  the    after  a  brief  pause,  '  I  have  come  here  to  look- 
infernal  cruelty  of  a  fiend  incarnate  r'  !  for  ray  wife.'  •■ 

Mr.  Morrison  thought  that  his  young  master's  ;  Tne  woman  pushed  her  trembling  hands  across 
braiu  had  been  di-sordered  by  the  shock  he  had  ,  her  forehead,  brushing  the  dead  black  hair  from 
iiist  undergone,  and  that  this  wild  talk  was  mere  )  either  temple,  and  still  staring  with  the  same  un- 
delirium.  ■  I;  utterable  horror  at  the  face  of  her  cousin.    Seve- 

'  Keep  ycur  heart  up,  Mr.  Edward,'  he  mur-  j  ral  times  she  tried  to  spcakflbut\he  broken  sylla- 
mured,  soothingly;  '  you  may  rely  upon  it  the  b!es  died  away  in  her  throat  in  hoarse,  inartiou- 
young  lady  has  been  found. '  late  muttefings.     At  last,  with  a  great  effort,  the 

But  Edward  was  in  no  mind  to  listen  to  any    words  came. 
mild   consolatory  remarks   -roni  his   valet.     He'      '  I— 1 — never  expected  to  see  you,'  she  said; 
had  thrust  his  h3ad  out  of  t.ie  f.arringe-winilow,  i  '  T  heard  tliat  you   were  very  ill;  I  heard  that 
and  his  eyes  were  fixed  upor.   the  dimly- ighted  ;  you — ' 

casements  of  the  western'<liawin.";-room.       •  ;      'You   heard    that   I    v/as   dying,'    interrupt^ 

'  The  room  in  which  John  anc}  Polly  and  I  used  i  Edward  Arundel;  '  or  that  iff  lived  I  should  drag 
to  sit  together  when  first  1  cauie  from  India,'  ho  ;  out  the  rest  of  my  existence  in  hopeless  idiocy, 
murmured.  'How  happy  we  were!  how  happy  ;  The  doctors  thought  as  much  a  week  ago,  v/hen 
we  were!'  'one  of  them,  cleverer  than   the  rest,  I   suppose, 

The  carriage  stopped  before  the  stone  portico,  |  had  the  courage  to  perform  an  operation  that  re- 
and  the  young  man  got  out  once  more,  assisted  by  j  stored  me  to  consciousness.  Sense  and  memory 
his  servant.  His  breath  came  short  and  quick  ;  came  back  to  me  by  degrees.  The  thick  veil  that 
now  that  he  stood  upon  the  threshold.  He  pushed  [  had  shrouded  the  past  was  retst  asunder;  and  the 
aside  the  servant  who  opened  t'le  familiar  door,  first  image  that  came  to  me  was  the  image  of  my 
at  the  summons  of  the  clanging  bell,  and  strode  ;  young  wife,  as  I  had  seen  her  upon  the  night  of- 
into  the  hall.  A  fire  burned  on  the  wide  hearth;  j  our  parting.  For  more  than  three  month*  I  had 
but  the  atmo.sphere  of  the  great  stone-paved  !  been  dead.  I  was  suddenly  restored  to  life.  I 
chamber  was  damp  and  chiHy.  ;  asked  those  about  me  to  give  me  tidings  of  my 

Captain  Arundel  walked  straight  to  the  door  of;  wife.  Had  she  sought  me  out?  had  she  followed 
the  westwn  drawing-room.  It  Wis  there  that  he  ;  me  to  Dangcerfield?  No!  They  could  tell  me 
bad  seen  lights  in  the  wJndov/s;  it  was  there  that!  nothing.  They  thought  that  I  was  delirious,  and 
he  expected  to  find  Olivia  Marchmont.  ;  tried  to  soothe  me  with  compassionate  speeches, 

*  He  was  not  mistaken,  A  shaded  lamp  burned !  merciful  falsehoods,  promising  me  that  I  should 
dimly  on  a  table  near  tlie/lre.  There  was  a  low  >  see  my  dc"ling.  But  I  soon  read  the  secret  of 
Invilid-chair  beside  this  table,  an  open  book  upon  i  their  scared  looks.  I  saw  pity  and  wonder  min- 
the  floor,  and  an  Indian  shawl,  one  he  had  sent  to  ;  glcd  in  my  mother's  face,  and  1  entreated  her  to 
biscousin,  llung  carelessly  upon  the  pillows.  The  ;  be  merciful  to  me,  and  to  tell  me  the  truth.  She 
neglected  tire  burned  low  in  the  old-fashioned ;  had  compassion  upon  me,  and  told  me  ail  she 
f;rate,  and  above  the  dull  red  blaze  stood  the 'knew,  which,  was  very  little.  She  had  never 
figure  of  a  woman,  tall,  dark,  and  gloomy  of;  heard  from  my  wife.  She  had  never  heard  of 
expect.  ;  any  marriagfe  between  Mary  Marchmont  and  me, 

It  was  Olivia   Marchmont,   in   the   mourning  <  The  only  communication  which  she  Jiad  received 
loben  that  she  had  worn,  with  but  one  brief  inter-   from  any  of  hej  Lincolnshire  relations  had  bee 
tiU55ii>H,  ever  siucc  iicr  husbaad'e  death.     Hur.  an  occasioiul  letter  from  iny  Uncle  Hubert,!' 


JOHN  MAIlfllMOWT'S  LE(JA(Ji'.  8.") 

t 

reply  to  one  of  licrs  teJJiiig  him  of  my  hopeless  face  ai  llie  sunlight  di»appears  beliiii'!  Ilic  sudden 
state.  darkness  of  a  Ihiinder-cloud. 

-' This  was  the  shock  that  fell  upon  me  when        •  What  question  r'  she  asked,  with  icy  indilfei- 
life  and  memory  came  back.     1   eould  not  bear   cnce. 

the  imprisonment  of  a  sick-bed.  1  felt  that  for  '.The  question  I  have  ccme  to  Lincjlnshire  to 
the  second  time  1  must  go  oi:t  into  the  world  to  ask;  the  question  1  have  periled  my  liff,  perhaps, 
look  for  my  darling;  and  in  defiance  of  tlie  doc-  to  ask,'  cried  the  young  man.  'Where  is  my 
tors,  in  deliancc  of  my  poor  mother,  who  thought    wife  :' 

that  my  departure  from  Dangerficld  was  a,sni-  The  widow  turned  upon  him  with  a  horrible 
cide,  1  am  here.     U  is  here  thyt  I   come  first  to    smile. 

Feek  for  my  wife.  I  miglit  have  ."lopped  in  Lon-  '1  never  beard  that  you  were  married,'  she 
don    lo  see    lliciiard    Pauletlc.     1    might  sooner   laid.     '  Who  is  your  wife.*' 

have  gained  tidjngs  of  my  darling.     But  T  came     •  '  Mary  Marchmont,  thV,  mistress^ of  this  house.' 
here;  1  came  here  without  siop])iiig  by  the  way,        Olivia  )pene(l   her  eyes  and  looked  at  him  in 
because   an  uncontrollable   instinct  and    an    un-    haif-sardonic  surprise, 
reasoning  impulse  tells  me  that  it  is  here  I  ou^ht  -     '  Then  it  was  not  a  fable  ?'  she  said, 
to  seek  her.     1  am   here,  her  husband,  l)er  only;      'What  was  not  a  fable?' 

true  and  legitimate  defender;  and  woebe  lo  tho.fc  '  The  unhappy  girl  spoke  the  truth  when  she 
wiio  stand  between  me  and  my  w  i.''e  !'  said  that  you  had  married  her  at  some  out-of-lhe- 

Hc  had  spoken  rapidly  in  his  passion;  arid  he    way  church  in  Lambeth.' 
stopped,  exhausted  by   his  cwn   vehemence,  and'       'The   truth!     Yes!'    cried    Edward    Arundel, 
sank  heavily  into  a  chai"*.     ?.r  fie  lamplit  table,    '  Who  sliould  dare  to   say  that  ^he  spoke  other 
and  oniy  a  lev/ pac     from  the  wiuov.\  '  than  the  truth  r     Who  sluould  dare  to  disbelieve 

Then" for  the  hrst  time  that  night  Olivia  March-  faer.=  ' 
mont  plainly  saw  her  cousin's  face,  and  saw  the  Olivia  Marchmont  smiled  again — the  same  Iioi- 
terriblo  change  that  had  transformed  the  hand-  rible  smile  that  was  almost  too  horrible  fop hu- 
some  young  soldier  since  the  bright  August  morn-  maiiity,  and  yet  had  a  certain  dark  and  gloony 
ing  on  wliich  he  had  gone  forth  fi'om  Rlarchmont  grandeur  ftf  its  own.  Satan,  the  star  of  fhe  morn- 
Towers.  She  saw'the  Jraces  of  a  long  and  weari-  ing,  may  have  so  smiled  despairing  defiance  upon 
some  illnes:7sadly  visible  in  hiswaxen  complexion,    the  .Archangel  Michael.  % 

liis  hollow  checks\  the  faded  lustre  of  his  eyes,  '  Unfortunately,' she  said,  '  no  one  believed  the 
his  dry  and  pallid  lips.  She  saw  all  this,  the  wo-  poor  child.  Her  story  Avas  such  a  very  absurd 
man  whose  one  great  sin  had  been  to  love  thi^  one,  and  she  could  bring  forward  no  shred  of  evi- 
man  wickedly  and  madly,  in   spite  of  her  bette'r   dcnce  in  support  of  it.' 

self,  in  spile  of  her  womanly  pride:  she  sav  >Iie  'O  my  God!'  ejaculated  Edward  Arundel, 
cliange  in  him  that  had  altered  him  from  a  yoimg  clasping  his  hands  above  his  head  in  a  paroxysm 
Appollo  to  a  shattered  and  broken  invalid.  And  of  rage  and  despair.  'I  sec  it  all;  I  see  it  all. 
did  any  revulsion  of  feeling  ariose  in  her  breast?  My  darling  has  been  tortured  to  death.  Woman  !' 
did  any  corresponding  transformation  in  her  own  he  cried,  '  are  you  possessed  by  a  thousand  fiends? 
heart  bear  witness  to  the  baseness  of  her  love?  Is  there  no  one  sentiment  of  womanly  compassion- 
No;  a  thousand  times,  no  !  'J'here  was  no  thrill  left  in  your  breast  ?  If  there  is  ono  spark  of  wo- 
of disgust,  how  transient  soever;  not  so  much  as  manhood  in  your  nature,  I  appeal  to  that.  I  ask 
one  passing  shudder  of  painful  surprise,  one  p*ng  you  what  has  happened  tqniy  wife  ?' 
of  womanly  regret.  '^lo  !  ]n  place  of  these,  a  'Mywii"e!  my  wife!'  The  reiteration  of  that 
•passionate  yearning  arose  in  this  woinan's  haughty  familiar  phrase  was  to  Olivia  Marchmont  like  the 
!;i)ul;  a  flood  of  sudden  tenderness  rushed  across  perpetual  thrust  of  a  dagger  aimed  at  an  open 
the  black  darkness  of  her  mind.  She  would  have  wound.  It  struck  every  time  upon  the  same  lor- 
llung  herself  upon  her  knees,  in  loving  .self-abase-  tured  spot,,and  inllict-cd  the  same  agony. 
rrient,atthe  sick  man's  feet.  She  would  have  '  The  placard  upon  the  gates  of  this  place  can 
cried  aloud  amidst  a  tempest  of  passionate  sobs:    tell  you  as  much  as  1  can,'  she  said. 

'  Oh  my  love,  my  love  !  you  are  dearer  to  me  a  The  ghastly  whitene.ss  of  the  soldier's  face  told 
hundred  tames  by  this  cruel  change.  It  was  ?ior  her  that  he  had  seen  the  ]ilacard  of  which  she 
your  bright  blue  eyes  and  waving  chestnut  hair —   spoke. 

it  was  not  your  handsome  face,  your  brave,sold:er-        'She   has    not    been    found    then?'    he   said, 
like  bearing — that  [  loved.     My  lovp  was  not  so    hoarsely, 
base  as  that.     I  inflicted  a  cruel  outrage  upon  my-       '  No.' 
self  when  I  thought  that  1  was  the  weak  fool  of       •  How  did  slie  disappear?' 
a  handsome   face.     W^hatever  /  have  been,  my       '  As  she  disappeared  upon  tlie  morning  on  which 
love, 'at  least,  has  been  pure.     My  love  is  pure,    you    followed   her.     She   wandered   out  of   the 
though   I    am    base.     I    will    never   slander  that   house,  this  time  leaving  no  letter,  ncr  message, 
again,  for  i  know  now  that  it  is  immortal.'  nor  explanation   of  any  kind  whatever.     It  w.'i> 

In  the  sudden  rush  of  that  flood-tide  of  lo^  e  in  the  middle  of  the  day  that  she  went  out;  and 
and  tenderness,  all  these  thoughts  welled  into  for  some  time  her  absence  caused  no  alarm,  as 
piiAia  Maichmont's  mind.  In  all  her  .sin  and  she  had  been  in  the  habit  of  going  out  alone  into 
desperation  she  had  never  been  so  true  a  woman  the  grounds  whenever  she  chose.  But,  after 
as  now.  She  had  never.  ;ieihaps,  been  so  near  some  hoiu's,  she  m  as  waited  for  and  watched  for 
being  a  good  woman.  But  ihc  tender  emotion  very  anxiously.  Then  a  search  was  made.' 
was  swept  out  of  her  breast  the  next  moment  by  •  Where?' 
tilt,  first  words  of  Edward  Arundel.  '      •  Wherever  she  had  been   in  the  habit  of  walk- 

'  Why  do  )ou  not  answer  my  question.'''  he  ing — in  the  park;  in  the  wood;  along  the  narrow 
said.  ~  path  by  the  water;  at  I'ollard's  farm;  at  Hester's 

She  drew  iieraelf  up  in  the  erect  and  rigid'al-  house  at  Kemberling — in  evci  y  jdace'  where  it 
litudc  that  liad  bccomr  almost  habitual  lo  iier.  might  -be  reasonably  imagined  Iheic  was  the 
l^cry  trace  vi  wcmauly  fitlinc  'i"i<-d  out  of  Jicr  blightcsl  chant c  of  fiiidiug  bei.' 


8G 


JOHN  jMARCllMONT'iS  LEGACY. 


«  And  all  this  was  without  result?"  '  '  ^.'^i'^'.' ""^^^rod  Olivia 

I  i'  It  was  '  '  '   cned  Edward  Arundel.     '  iou  knew 

'  Whu  did  she  l^^ave  this  place  ?  God  iielp  you, ;  the  poor  child  had  spoken  the  truth.  You  kr;»vv 
Oiina  Marciimont,  if  it  was  vour  cruelty  that '  her— you  knew  me— v/ell  enough  to  know  IhaM 
drove  he^way.'  '  '  should  not  have  detained  her  away  from  her  home 

The  vvllow'took  no  notice  of  the  threat  im- ;  an  hour,  except  to  make  lier  tiiy  wife,  except  Co 
plied  in  these  v.^ords.  Was  th'ere  any  thing  upon  igive  myself  the  strongest  right  to  love  and  defend 
earth  that  she  feared  now?    No;  nothing.     Had;  her.'  r  .^.    ^  ■   ^   n     /■     a       ^i 

she  not  endured  the  worst,  long  ago,  in  Kdward  ;.  'IJaiew  Nothing  of  the  kind,  Captain  Arundel; 
Arundel's  contempt?  She  had  no  fear  of  a  battle  ;  you  and  ivlary  fJarchmont  had  taken  good  care  to 
with  this  iTian;  or  with  anv  other  creature  in  the  ;  keep  your  secrets  from  nie.  I  knew  nothing  of 
world-  or"  with  the  whole  \7orld  arrayed  and  your  plots,  your  intentions.  J  should  have  con-- 
banded  toeether  against  her,  if  need  were.  :  sidered  that  one  of  the  DangerfieJd  Arundels 
Among  all  the  torments  of  those  black  depths  lo  ;  would  have  thought  his  honor  sullied  by  such  an 
whicii  her  sou'  had  gone  down  there  was  no  such  ;  act  as  a  stolen  marriage  with  an  heiress,  coi^id-  > 


"a  am  very  grateful  to  you,  Edward  Arundel,',;     'Mr.  Marchmont?' 
hhe  said   bitterly, '  for  the  good  opinion  you  have-J     'Yes;    Paul   Marchmont— my   husbands   first- 
always  had  of  me.     The  blood  of  the  Danger- ;  cousin.'  .^      ■  ^  .     ,     ^ 

field  Arundels  must  have  had  some  drop  of  poison  :  A  sudden  cry  of  rage  aifid  gnef  broke  from  Ld- 
intermingled  with   it,  I  should  tliink,  before  it  ^  ward  Arundei's  lips. 

could  produce  such  a  vile  creature  as  mc;  and  J    -'O  iny  God!'  he  exclaimed,  'there  was  some 

Ivet  I  have  heard  peo^ilc  say  my  mother  was  a ;  foiindation  for  the  warning  in  John  Marchmon'  > 

good  woman.'  '  ''  'letter,  after  ail.    And  I  Jaughtfd  athim;  I  laugh'  l 

The  vouri""  man  writhed  impatiently  beneath  ;  at  my  poor  friend's  fears.' 
the  torture   of   his   cousin's  deliberate   speech.  |     The  widow  looked  at  her  kinsman  in  mute 
Was  there  to  be  no  end  to  this  unendurable  delay  r '  wonder. 

Even  now— now  that  he  was*'     this  house,  face  ;      'iias  Paul  Marchmont  been  in  this  house  ?'  he 
to  face  with  the  -"Toman  ho  had  come  to  quesiiou, '/  asked, 
it  seemed  as  if  he  couiti  not  get  tidings  of  his  I     'Yes.'  ,     ^       ., 

■^y][g^  '  ■/     'When  was  he*iere.^ 

So"  often  ill  his  dreamr,  he  had  headed  a  be-}     'Ht  has  been  here  oftenl     He  comes  here  con- 
sieging  party  agai.nst  the  Afgl-ans,  with  thj  seal- Utantly.     He  has  been  living  at  Kemberling  for 
ing-ladders  reared  against  the  wail,  and  his  men  !  the  last  tla-ee  months.' 
behind  urgii  g  him  on  to  the  encounter,  and  had  /   .'.Why?'     ■  ,  ^.  . 

felt  himself  paralvzed  and  helpless,  with  his'  »For  his  own  pleasure,  I  suppose,'  Ohvia  an- 
sabreweakasa  withered  reed  in  his  nerveless  /  swercd,  haughtily.  'It  is  no  business  of  mine  to 
jj'g^^j  ;  pry  into  Mr.  Maf'^'mont's  motives.' 

'For  God's  sake,  le«  there  be  no  quarreling!  "EdwOji'd  Arunoci  ground  his  teeth  in  an  excess 
with  phrases  between  you  and  me,  Olivia!'  he ;  of  ungovernable  passion.  It  was  not  against 
cried.  '  If  vou  cr  any  other  living  being  have  (  Olivia  but  against  himself  this  time  that  he  was 
iniured  mv  wife,  the  reckoning  between  us  shall ;  enraged.  He  hated  hiTnself  for  the  arrogant  folly, 
be  no  ligh"t  one.  But  there  will  be  time  enough  I  the  obstinate  presumption,  with  which  he  had  ridi- 
to  talk  of  that  by-and-by.  1  stand  before  you /culed  and  slighted  John  Marchmont's  vague  fears 
newlv  risen  from  a  grave  in  which  I  have  lain  for  '  of  his  kinsman  Paul. 

more' than  three  months;  as  dead  to  the  world,)  'fcjo  this  man  has  been  here— is  here  constantly,' 
and  to  every  creature  I  have  ever  loved  or  hated, ;  he  muttered.  'Of  course;  it  is  only  natural  that 
as  if  the  Funeral  Service  had  been  read  over  my  /  he  should  hang  about  the  place.  And  you  and  he 
coffin.  I  come  to  demand  from  you  an  account :  are  stanch  allies,  I  suppose?'  he  added,  turning 
of  what  has  happened  during  that  interval.     If ,  upon  Olivia.  ^ 

vou  palter  or  prevaricate  with  me,  I  shall  know  :      'Stanch  allies  !     Why.'' 
that  It  is  because  you  fear  to  tell  me  the  truth.'     ,      'Because  you  both  hate  my  wife. 

•Fear!'  i     'What  do  you  mean?' 

'  Yes-  you  hay.°.  good  reasoT:i  to  fear,  if  you  \  'You  both  hate  her..  You,  out  of  a  base  envy 
hare  wronged  Mary  Arundel.  Why  did  she  leave  of  her  wealth;  because  of  her  superior  rights, 
this  house.''  which  made  you  -a  secondary  person  in  this  house, 

'Because,  she  was  not  happy  in  it,  I  suppose,  perhaps— there  is  nothing  else  for  which  you 
(She  chose  to  shut  heri»clf  up  in  her  own  room, ;  oottW  hate  her.  Paul  Marchmont,  because  she 
-aid  to  refuse  to  be  governed,  or  ad^ispd,  or  con- 1  stands  between  him  and  a  fortune.  Jlcaven  help 
soled  1  tried  to  do  my  duty  to  her;  yes,'  cried  her !  Heaven  help  my  poor,  geut'c,  guileless 
Olivia  Ma'-chiaont,  suddenly  riiising  her  voice,  as  {darling.  Surely  Heaven  must  have  had  seme 
if  she  had  been  veh-;mently  contradi.  .ed— '  yes, !  pity  upon  her  when  her  husband  was  not  by.- 
1  did  try  to  do  my  duty  to  her.  1  urged  her  to  '  The  young  man  dashed  the  blinding  tears  from 
listen  to  reason-  I  begged  her  to  abandon  her;  his  eyes.  They  were  the  first  that  he  had  shed 
foolish  faiiebood  about ''a  marriage  with  you  .in  .since  he  had  risen  from  that  which  many  people 
j^pndoc  '  ;  l>ad  thought  his  dying  bed,  to  search  for  his  wife. 

'  You  UisbelieYca  ia  that  marriage ':'  ;     But  this  was  no  time  for  tears  or  lamentations. 


JOHN  MARCHMQ,\T'S  LEGACY. 


87 


Stem  determination  took  the  place  of  tender  pity 
find  sorrowrnl  love.  It  was  a  time  for  resolution 
and  promptitude. 

'Olivia  Marchniont,' he  j-^ld,  *there  li^a  been 
some  foul  p'ay  in  this  busine?<s.  My  wife  has 
been  iiU9<!i;ig  a  month;  yet,  when  i  asked  ray 
mother  what  had  happened  at  this  house  during 
my  illness,  she  could  tell  me  nothing:.  Why  did 
you  not  write  to  tell  her  of  Mary's  flight?' 

'Because  Mrs.  Arundel  has  never  done  me  the 
honor  to  cultivate  any  intimacy  between  us.  My 
father  writes  to  h.'s  sister-in-lnw  sometimes.  I 
scarcely  ever  write  to  my  aunt.  On  the  other 
hand,  your  mother  had  never  seen  Mary  March- 
mont,  and  could  not  be  expected  to  take  any 
great  interest  in  lier  proceedings.  There  was, 
therefore,  no  reason  for  my  writing  a  special  let- 
ter to  announce  the  trouble  that  had  befallen  me. ' 

•You  might  have  written  to  my  mother  about 
my  marriage.  You  might  have  applied  to  her 
for  confirmation  of  the  story  which  you  disbe- 
lieved.' 

Olma  Marchmont  smiled. 

'Should  I  have  received  that  confirmation  r'  she 
said.  'No.  I  saw  your  mother's  letters  to  my 
father.  There  was  no  mention  in  those  lettersof 
any  marriage;  no  mention  irtever  of  Mary 
Marchmont.  This  in  itself  was  enough  to  con- 
firm my  disbelief.  Was  it  reasonable  to  imagine 
that  you  would  have  married,  and  yet  have  left 
your  mother  in  total  ignorance  of  the  fact?' 

'O  God,  help  me!'  cried  Edward  Arundel, 
wringing  his  !iand«.  'It  seems  as  if  my  own  folly, 
my  own  vile  procrastination,  have  brought  this 
trouble  i;pon  my  wife.  Oiivia  Mprchmont,  hnve 
pity  upon  me  !  If  you  )iate  this  girl,  your  malice 
must  surely  have  been  satisfied  by  this  time.  She 
has  suflfercd  enough.  Pity  me,  and  help  nu.,  if 
you  have  any  human  feeling  in  your  breast.  She 
'"jft  this  house  because  her  life  here  had  grown 
lendurable;  because   she  saw  herself  doubted, 

sbelieved,  widowed  in  the  first  month  of  her 
marriage,  utterly  desolate  and  friendless.  An- 
other woman  might  have  borne  up  against  all  this 
misery.  Another  woman  would  have  known  how 
to  assert  herself,  and  to  defend  herself,  even  in 
the  midst  of  her  sorrow  and  desolation.  ^But  my 
poor  darling^is  a  child;  a  baby  in  ignorance  of  the 
world.  How  should  she  protect  herself  against 
her  enemies?  Her  only  instinct  was  to  run  away 
from  her  persecutor? — to  hide  herself  from  those 
whore  pretended  doubts  flung  the  horror  of  dis- 
honol*  upon  her.  1  can  understand  ail  now;  I  can 
understand.  Olivia  Marchmont,  this  man  Paul 
has-  a  strong  reason  for  being  a  villain.  The'mo- 
tives  that  have  induced  you  to  do  wrong  must  be 
very  small  in  comparison  to  his.  He  plays  an  in- 
famous game,  1  believe,  but  he  plays  for  a  high 
stake.' 

A  high  stake!  Had  not  she  periled  her  soul 
upon  the  casting  of  this  die?  Had  she  not  flung 
down  her  eternal  happiness  in  ll\at  fatal^game  ol 
hazard? 

•Help  me,  then,  Olivia,'  said  Edward,  implor- 
ingly; 'help  me  to  find  my  wife;  and  itone  for 
all  that  you  have  ever  dofae  amiss  in  the  past.  It 
is  not  too  late.' 

His  voice  softened  as  he  spoke.  He  turned  to 
her,  with  his  hands  clasped,  waiting  anxiously 
for  her  answer.  Perhaps  thi»  appeal  was  the  last 
cry  of  her  good  angel,  pleading  against  the  devils 
for  her  redemption.  But  the  devils  had  too  long 
held  possession  of  this  womnn's   breast.     Thej 


J  arose,  arrogsnt  an\l  unpitying,  and  hardened  her 

^  heart  a§ainstthat  pleading  voice. 

^      'How   mucli    he   loves    her!'  thought    Olivia 

>  Marchmouc;  "how  dearly  he  loves   her;  for  her 
.sake  he  humiliates  himself  to  me.' 
;.     Then,  with  no  sHow  of  relenting  in  her  voice 
Jormanntr,  she  said,  delil>erately, 
;     'f  can  only  teil  you  again  what   I  told  you  be- 

>  fore.     The  placaril  you  saw  at  the  park  gates  cat] 

>  tell  you  as  much  as  I  car.  AFary  Marchmont 
:  ran  away.  She  was  sought  for  in  every  direction , 
'but  without  success.  Mr.  Marchmont,  who  is  a 
,man  of  the  world,  and  better  able  to  suggest  what 
;  is  right  in  such  a  case  as  this,  suggested  that  Mr. 
',  Paulcttc  should  be  sent  for.  He  was  accordingly 
.communicated  with.  He  came  and  instituted  a 
;  fresh  search.  He  alsa  caused  a  bill  to  be  printed 
^and  distributed  through  the  country.  Advertise- 
;  mcnts  were  inserted  in  the  Times  and  other  papers, 
;  For  some  reason' — I  forget  what  reason — Mary 

Marchmont's  name  did  not  appear  in  these  ad- 
f  vertisements.  They  were  so  worded  as  to  render 
;!the  publication  of  the  name  unnecessalVy.' 

>  Edward  Arundel  pushed  his  hand  across  his 
;  forehead. 

<  'Richard  Paulettehas  been  here !'  he  murmured 
I  in  a  low  voice. 

J  .He  had  every  confidenrq^in  the  lawyei ;  and  a 
;;  deadly  chill  came  over  him  at  the  thought  that  the 
Icool,  hard-headed  solicitor  had  failed  to  find  the 
^  missing  girl. 

'!     'Yes;  he  was  here  two  or  three  days,' 
'  •   'And  he  could  do  nothing?' 

>  'Nothing,  csrt;pt  what  I  have  loid  you.' 
The  young  man   thrust  his  hjnd  into  his  breast 

'to  still  th^cruel  beating  of  his  hesrt.  A  sudden 
terror  had  take-  possession  of  him — a  horrible 
dread  that  he   s.iould  never  look  upon  his  young 

Mvife's  face  again. 

>  'There  was  something  in  that  placard,' the  sol- 
dier said  at  last,  in  a  hoarse,  altered  voice — 'there 

/was  something  about  mv  wife  having  been  seen 
/  last  by  the  water-side.     Who  saw  her  there  I ' 
'Mr.  Weston,  a  surgeon  of  Kemberling — Paul 
Marchmont's  brother-jn-law.' 
'Was  she  seen  by  no  one  else  ?' 
/     'Yes;  she  was  seen  at  about  the  same  time — a 
/little  sooner  or  later,  we  don't  know  which — by 
one  of  Farmer  Pollard's  men.* 
'And  she  has  never  been  .seen  since  ?' 
'Never;  that  is  to  say,  we  can  hear  of  no  one 
who  has  seen  her.' 

'At  what  time  in  the  day  was  she  seen  bv  this 
Mr.  Weston-' 
'At  dusk;  between  five  and  six  o'clock.' 
Edward  Arundel  put  his  hand   suddenly  to  his 
.  thront,  as  if  to  check  some  choking  sensalipn  that 
prevented  his  speaking. 

;  'Olivia,'  he  said,  'my  wife  was  last  feeii  by  the 
;  river-side.  Does  any  one  think  that,  by  anyun- 
;  happy  accident,  by  any  terrible  fatality,  she  lost 
/  her  way  after  dark,  and  feil  into  the  water? — or 
that — (J  God,  that  would  be  too  horrible! — does 
'  any  one  suspect  that  she  drowned  herself?' 
^  'Many  things  have  been  saiil  since  her  disap- 
}  pearance,'  Olivia  Marchmont  answered.  'Soma 
j  people  say  one  thing,  some  another.' 
I  'And  it  has  been  caid  that  she — that  she  was 
drowned  -' 

'Yes,  many  people  have  said  so.  The  river  was 
dragged  while  Mr.  Paulctte  was  here,  and   after 
,  he  went  a\.  ay.     The  men  were  at  work  with  the 
^  dr^gs  for  more  than  a  week.'  , 

j     ^And  they  found  nothing?' 


S8 


JOHN   MARCIiMONT'S  LEGACY, 


'Nothing.'  . 

♦Was  there  any  other  reason  for  supposing  that 
— that  my  wife  fell  into  the  river?' 

'(^nly  one  reason.' 

'What  was  that?' 

M  -will  ?howyou,'0)ivia  Mtirchnictit  answerer]. 

She  took  a  bunch  cf  keys  from  her  pockf't,  and 
'veut  to  an  old-fashioned  bureau  or  cabinet  upon 
/he  other  side  of  the  room.  She  unlocl.-f'(i  the 
upper  part  of  this  bureau,  opened  one  of  the 
♦Irawers,  and  took  from  it  somethinj;  which  she 
brought  to  Edward  Arundel. 

'I'his  something  was  a  little  shoe;  a  little  slioe 
of  soft  bronzed  leather,  stained  and  discolored 
with  damp  and  moss,  and  irodden  down  u^ion  one 
side,  as  if  the  wearer  had  walked  a  weary  way 
in  it,  and  had  been  uus^customed  to  so  much 
walking. 

Edward  Arundel  remembered,  in  that  brief, 
childishly-happy  honey-moon  at  the  little  Tillage 
near  Winchester,  how  often  he  had  laughed  at  his 
young  wife's  propensity  for  ^yalking  about  damp 
meadows  in  such  delicate  little  slippers  as  were 
better  adapted  to  the  requirements  of  a  ball-room. 
lie  remembered  the  slender  foot,  so  small  that  he 
could  take  it  in  his  hand;  the  feeble  little  foot 
that  had  grown  tired  in  long  wanderings  by  the 
Hampshire  trout-streams,  but  which  had  toiled  .on 
in  heroic  self-abnegation  so  long  as  it  was  the  will 
of  the  sultan  to  pedestrianize. 

'Was  this  found  by  the  river-side  ?' he  asked, 
looking  piteouslyat  the  slipper  which  Mrs.  March- 
mont  had  put  into  his  hand. 

'Yes;  it  was  found  among  th%  rushes  on  the 
'itjore,Ta  mile  below  the  spot  at  which  Mr.  Wes- 
ton saw  my  step-daughter.' 

Edward  Arundel  put  the  little  shoe  into  his 
bosom  • 

'J'H  not  believe  it,'  he  cried,  suddenly;  'I'll  not 
believe  that  my  darling  is  lost  to  me.  She  was 
too  good,  far  too  goud,  to  think  of  suicide;  and 
Providence  would  never  suli'er  my  poor  lonely 
child  tc  be  led  away  to  a  dreary  death  upon'  that 
disnial  river-shore. .  Mo,  no;  she  fled  away  from 
this  place  because  she  wa^  too  wretched  here.— 
She  went  away  to  hide  herself  among  thor-e  whom 
she  could  .trust,  until  her  husband  came  to  claim 
her.  1  will  believe  any  thing  in  the  world  e.xce|)t 
that  she  is  lo?t  to  me.  And  1  will  not  believe  th^t, 
1  will  never  believe  that,'  until  1  look  down  at.her 
corpse;  until  1  lay  my  hand  on  her  cold  breast, 
and  feel  that  her  true  heart  has  ceased  beating. 
As  I  went  out  of  this  place  four  months  ago  to 
look  for  her,  I  will  go  again  now.  My  darling, 
my  darling,  my  innocent  pet,  ray  childish  bride; 
1  will  go  to  the  very  end  of  the  world  ins&arch 
of  you.' 

'rhe  widow  ground  her  teeth  as  she  listened  to 
her  kinsman's  passionate  words.  Why  did  he 
forever  goad  her  to  blacker  wickedness  by  this 
pirade  of  his  love  for  Mary?  Why  did  he  force 
her  to  remember  every  moment  how  miudi  cause 
»he  had  to  hate  this  pale-faced  girl. 

Captain  Arundel  rose,  and  walked  a  few  paces, 
leaning  on  his  atsck  as  he  went. 

'Yoi;  will  sleep  hereto  night,  of  courser'  Olivia 
Marchmont  said. 

'Sleep  here!' 

His  tone  expres^ed  plainly  enough  that  the 
place  was  utterly  abhorrent  to  him. 

*Yes  ;  where  else  should  you  stay  ?' 

'1  meant  to  have  stopped  at  the  nearest  inn.' 
•  'The  nearest  inn  is  at  Kemberling.' 

'That  would  suit  me  well  enough,' the  yqxmg 


f/man  answered,  indiflerently  ;  'I  must  he  in  Kem- 
berling early  to-morrow,  for    1   must    see  Paul 
.Marchmont.     I  am  no  nearer  the  comprehension 
of  my  wife's,  llight  by  any  thing  that  you  hnvf'. 
,  lold  me.     It  is  to  Paul  Alarchmout  that  1  must 
;■  look  next.     Heaven  help  him  if  he  tries  to  keep 
'  the  truth  from  me.' 

'You  will  see  IVir.,JVlarcbmont  here  as  easily  as 
;r.t    Kemberling,'  Olivia   answered.     'Ho   comes 
i 1  ere  every  day.' 
'What  for?' 

'He  has  built  a  sort  of  painting-room  down  by 
the  river-side,  and  he  paints  there  whenever  there 
is  light.' 

'Indeed!'  cried  Edward  Arundel  ; 'he  makes 
;  himself  at  home  at  Marchmont  Towers,  then?' 

'He  has  a  right  to  do  so,  I  suppose,'  answered 
;  the  widow,  iHttifFcrently.     'If  Mary  Marchmont 
i'is  dead,  this  place  and  all  belonging  to  it  is  his. 
As  it  is,  1  am  only  here  on  sufl'erance.' 
'      'He  has  taken  posseision,  then  ?' 

'On  the  contrary,  he  shrinks  from  doing  so.' 
'And,  ]fy  the  Heaven  above  us,  he  does  wisely,' 
'■  cried  Edward  Arundel.  'No  man  shall  seize  upon 
that  which  belongs  to  my  darling.     No  foul  plot 
;  of  this  artist-traitor  shall  rob  her  of  her  own. 
God  knows  how  little  value  i  set  upon  her  weaitn; 
]  but  I  will  gtand  between  'icr  and  those  who  try 
I  to  rob  her,  until   my  lact  gasp.     No,  Olivia,  I'll 
.'  not  stay  here  ;  I'll  accept  no  hospitality  from  Mr. 
)  Marchmont.     I  suspect  bini  too  much.' 
(      He  walked  to  the  door  ;  but  before  he  reached 
[  it  the  widow  went  to  one  of  the  windows,  and 
J  pushed  aside  the  blind. 

/  'Look  at  the  rain,'  she  said  ;  'hark  at  it ;  don't 
you  hear  it  drip,  drip,' drip  opon  the  stone?  1 
'  wouldn't  turn  a  dog  out  of  doors  upon  such  a 
,  night  as  this  ;and  you — you  are  so  ill-r-so  weak. 
;  Edward  Arundel,  do  you  laate  me  so  much  that 
;  you  refuse  to  share  the  same  shelter  with  me, 
,  even  for  a  night?' 

'  There  is  nothing  so  difficult  of  belief  to  a  man 
^  v/ho  is  not  a  coxcomb  as  the  sinijjle  fact  that  he  is 
:  beloved  by  a  woman  whom  he  does  not  love,  and 
:  has  never  wooed  by  word  or  deed.  But  for  this 
;  surely  Edward  Arundel  must,  in  that  sudden 
;  burst  of  tenderness,  that  one  piteous  appeal,  have 
,  discovered  a  clew  to  his  cou^^in's  secret. 
!  He  discovered  nothing  ;  ^t  guessed  nothing. 
;  But  he  was  tour^ed  '  ■  ?r  tone,  even  in  spite  of 
his  utter'  ignorance  ^'l  its  meaning,  and  he  re- 
,  plied,  in  an  altered  mann".r, 

'Certainly,  Oli    a,  if  jou  really  wish   it,  I  will 

•  stay.     Heaven  knows  I   have  no  desire  that  you 

and  I  should  he   ill   friends.     I  want  your  help  ; 

your  pity,  perhaps.     I  ani  quite  willing  to  believe 

that  any  cruel  things  you  sai'i  to  Mai'y  arose  from 

I  an  ouli)reak  of  temper.     1  can  not  think  that  you 

!  could    be    base   at   hesirt.     I  will  even  attribiite 

i  your  disbelief  of  Ihu  statement  madf;  by  my  poor 

J  girl  as  to  our  marriage  to  the  narrow  prejudices 

]  learned    in    a   flismal   country  town.     L»;t  us  be 

;  friends,  Oliria.' 

',  He  held  out  his  hand.  His  cousin  laid  hcrcold 
;  fingers  in  his  open  palm,  and  he  shudddered  as  if 
he  had  come  in  contact  with  a  corpse.  There 
was  nothing  very  cordial  in  the  salutation.  The  . 
■  two  hands  seemed  to  drop  asunder,  lifeless  and 
inert ;  as  if  to  hrar  mule  W'itHess  that  between 
these  two  people  Ihere^was  no^possibility  of  sym- 
pathy or  union. 

But  Captain  Arundel  accepted  his  cousin's  hos- 
(  pitality.  Indeed,  he  had  need  to  do  so  ;  for  he 
)  found  that  his  ralet  had  relied  upon  his  master's 


JOHN  MARCHMONT'S  LEGACY. 


89 


stopping  at  the  Towers,  and  had  sent  the  carriage  'Yes;  she  had  brain-fever  ;  she  recovered  from 
back  to  Swampington.  A  traywith  cold  meat  that,  but  she  did  not  recover  streiigth.  Her  low 
and  wine  was  brought  into  the  drawing-room  for  spirits  alarmed  me,  and  I  considered  it  only 
the  young  soldier's  refreshment.  He  drank  a  riglit — Mr.  Marchmont  suggested  also— that  a 
glass  ol'  Madeira,  and  made  some  pretense  of  medical  man  should  be  consulted.' 
eating  a  few  moulhfuls,  out  of  courtesy  to  Olivia;  'And  what  did  this  man,  thisi.  Mr.  Weston, 
but  be  did  this  ulmubt  niechaiiicallv.     He  sat  si-    sayr'  ' 

lent  and  gloomy,  brooding  over  the  lerribleshock  'Very  little  ;  there  was  nothing  thematterwith 
thai  he  had  su  newly  receiver  ;  brooding  over  the  Mary,  he  said.  He  gave  her  a  little  medicine, 
hidden  things  thai  had  happened  in  that  dreary  j  but  only  in  the  desire  of  strengthening  her  ner- 
intcrval,  during  which  he  had  been  as  powerless  j  vous  system.  He  could  give  her  no  medicine  that 
to  defend  bis  wife  from  trouble  as  a  dead  man.      .  would  have  any  very  good  cflect  upon  her  spirits. 

Again  and  again  the  cruel  thought  returned  to  ,  while  site  chose  to  keep  herself  obstinately  apart 
hitn,  each   iiuie   with   a  fresh  agony — that  if  be    from  eteiy  one.' 

had  wriiten  to  bis  mother,  if  he  bad  told  her  the  The  young  man's  head  sank  upon  his  breast, 
story  of  hi*  marriage,  the  things  which  bad  hap-  The  image  of  his  desolate  young  wife  aroie  be- 
pened  could  never  have  come  to  pass.  Mary  fore  him  ;  the  image  of  a  pale,  sorrowful  girl, 
would  have  been  sheltered  and  protrctrd  by  a  holding  herself  apart  from  her  persecutors,  abaa- 
good  and  loving  woman".  This  thought,  this  hor-  doiied,  lonely,  despairing.  Why  had  she  remained 
lible  s.-lf-reproach,  was  the  bitterest  thing  the  at  Marchmont  Towers  ?  Why  had  she  CT»r  eo»- 
yoiinsr  man  bad  to  bear.  sented  to  go  there,  when  she  had  again  and  agais 

'It  is  loo  great  a  punishment,'  be  thought;  '1  expressed  such  terror  of  her  step-mother  ?  V^hy 
am  too  cruelly  punished  for  having  forgotten  every  had  she  not  rather  followed  her  husband  down  to 
thing  in  my  happiness  with  my  darling.'  Devonshire,  and  thrown  herself  upon  bis  relativea 

The  widow  sat  in  her  low  casy-chair  near  the  for  protection?  Was  it  like  this  loving  girl  to 
fire,  with  her  eyes  fixed  upon  the  burning  coals  ;  remain  quietly  here  in  Lincolnshire,  when  the 
the  grate  bad  been  replenished,  and  the  light. of  man  she  loved  with  such  innocent  devotion  was 
the  red  blaze  shone  full  upoti  Olivia  Maribmont's  lying  between  life  and  death  away  in  the  west.' 
haggard  face.  Edward  .\rundel,  aroused  for  a  'She  is  such  a  child,' he  thought — 'such  a  child 
few  moments  out  ol  his  gloomy  abstraction,  was  in  her  ignorance  of  the  world.  I  must  not  reason 
!*urprised  at  the  change  wbicb  ;in  interval  of  a  about  her  as  1  would  about  another  woman.' 
few 'months  had  made  in  his  coitsia.  Thr.  gloomy  And  then  a  sudden  Hush  of  passionate  emotion 
shadow  which  he  bad  olten  seen  on  her  face  had  rose  to  his  face,  as  a  new  thought  flashed  into  hii 
become  a  fixed  expressiort  :  ever\  line  bad  deep-  mind.  What  if  this  helpless  girl  had  been  de- 
ened,  as  if  by  the  wear  and  tear  of  ten  years,  tained  by  force  at  Marchmont  Towers.' 
rather  than  hy  the  progress  of  a  tew  monthsM  'Olivia,'  hfe  cried, 'whi^ieveabaseness  this  man 
Olivia  Marchmont  had  ^;rown  o'd  b(;i'ore  her  lime.  ;  Paul  Marchmont  may  be  capable  of,  you  at  least 
Nor  was  this  the  only  change.  There  was  a  look,  must  bp  superior  to  any  deliberate'sin.  I  have 
undefined  and  undelina^ile,  in  the  large  luminous  all  my  life  believed  in  you,  and  respected  you  ai 
gray  eyes,  unnaturally  luminous  now,  which  filled -;  a  good  woman.  Tell  me  the  truth,  then,  for. 
kidward  Arundel  with  a  vague  sense  of  terror,'  pity's  sake.  N(fthing  that  you  can  tell  me  will 
a  terror  which  he  would  not — which  he  dared  •  fill  up  the  dead  blank  that  the  horrible  interval 
not — altentpt  tcvaiialyze.  Ho  remembered  Mary's  since  my  accident  bus  made  in  my  life.  But  yon 
unreasoning  fear  of  her  step-molher,  and  he  now  can  give  me  some  help.  A  few  words  from  you 
scarcely  wondered  at  that  fear.  Tb<  re  was  some-  may  clear  away  mucli  of  this  darkness.  How  did 
thing  almost  weird  and  unearthly  in  the  aspect  of  you  find  my  wife.-  How  did  you  induce  her  to 
the  woman  Mitiiig  oppo.iite  to  tiim  by  the  broad  come  back  to  this  place.'  i  know  that  sl^  had  an 
hearth  ;  no  vestige  ot  color  in  her  gloomy  face,  unreasonable  dread  of  returning  here.' 
a  strange  light  burning  in  her  eyes,  and  her  black  'I  found  her  through  the  agency  of  Mr.  March- 
draperieslalling  round  her  in  jtrai^it  lustreless  mont.'  Olivia  answered,  quietly.  'I  had  some 
folds*  '  ■  ditficulty  in  inducing  her  to  return  here;  but  after 

'1  fear  you  have  been  ill.  Olivia,'  the  young    hearing  of  your  accident — ' 
man  said,  piesenily.  How  was  the  news  of  that  broken  to  her.'' 

•  Another  sentiment  had  arisen  in  his  breast  side  '  'Unfortunately  she  saw  a  paper  that  had  h»p- 
by  side  with  that  vague  terror — a  fancy  that  per-    pened  to  be  left  in  her  way. 


pent 

'By  whom.'' 

'By  Mr.  Marchmont.' 

'Where  was  this.'' 

'In   Hampshire.' 

•Indeed  !  then  Paul  Marchmont  went  with  you 
to  Hampshire.'' 

'He  did.     He  was  of  great  service  to  me  in 


haps  there  was  some  reason  why  his  cousin  should 
be  pitied. 

'Yes,'  she  answered,  indiH'erenil'^  ;  as  if  no  sub- 
ject   of    which    Captain    Arundel  , could    have  J 
rtpoken  would  have  been  of  less  concern  to  ber- 
'yei,  I  have  been  very  ill.' 

'I  am  sorry  to  bear  it.' 

Olivia  lookrd  up  at  him  and  smiled.  Her  imile  this  crisis.  After  seeing  the  paper  my  itep- 
was  the  strangest  he  had  ever  aeen  upon  a  wo-  daughter  >vas  seized  with  brain-fever.  She  was 
man's  fare.  unconscious  when  we   brought  her  back  to  the 

*1  am  very  sorry  to  hear  it.  What  hai  been  /i'owers.  She  was  nursed  by  my  old  servant  Bar- 
the  mailer  with  you  .''  j  bara,  and  had  flie  highest  mfdical  care.     1  do  not 

'Slow  fever,  Mr.  Weston  «aid.'  j  think  that  any  thing  more  could  have  been  done 

'.Mr.  Weston  ■'  for  her.' 

'Ves;  Mr.  Marrhmont's  brother-in-law.  He  ,  'No,' answered  Edward  Arundel,  bitterly, 'un- 
has  succeeded   to   Mr.    Dawnfield'i  practice  at  ("less  you  could  have  loved  her.'  • 

KeiBberling.    He  attended  me,  and  he  attended''     'We  can  not  force  our  afiectioni,' the  widow 
my  step-daughter. '  (  said,  in  a  bard  voice. 

'My  wife  was  ill,  then  V  ]     Another  Toiee  in  her  brtut  leemed  to  whitptr. 


90 


JOHN  MARCHMONT'S  LEGACY. 


THE    PAINTING-ROOM    BT    THE    RITKR. 


*\yhy  do  you  reproach  mc  for  not  having  loved  '>  spreading  her  transparent  liands  above  the  red 
this  girl  ?    If  you  had  loved  me,  the  vchole  world  ''.  light.  * 

would  have  been  different.'  ',     'It  isn't  particular  comfortable,  after  Danger- 

'Olivia  Marchmont,'  said  Captain  Arundel,  'by  /  field,'  the  valet  muttered,  in  a  melancholy  voice; 
your  own  avowal  there  has  never  been  any  affec-  I 'and  all  I  'ope,  Mr.  Edward,  is,  that  the  sheets 
tion  for  this  orphan  |irl  in  your  heart.     It  is  not :!  are  not  damp.     I've  been  a  stirrin' of  the  fire  and 
my  business  to  dwell  upon  the  fact,  as  something  /  puttin'  on  fresh  coals  for  the  last  hour.     There's 
almost   unnatural   under    the    peculiar  circum- <  a  bed  for  me  in  the  dressin'-room,  within  call.* 
stances  through  which   that  helpless  child  was ;     .Captain  Arundel  scarcely  heard  what  his  ser- 
cast  upon  your  protection.     It  is  needless  to  try  ;!  vant  said  to  hrm.     He  was  standing  at  the  door 
to  understand  why  you  have  hardened  your  heart  >  of  the  spacious  chamber,  looking  out  into  a  long, 
^  against  my  poor  wife.     Enough  that  it  is  so.  But  >  low-roofed" corridor,  in   which   he   had  just  en- 
I  may  still   believe  that,  whatever  your*  feelings  ^  countered  Barbara,  Mrs.  Marchmont's  confiden- 
may  be  toward  your  dead  husband's  daughter, /tial   attendant — the    wooden-faced,' inscrutable- 
you  would  not  be  guilty  of. any  deliberale  act  of  Rooking  woman  who,  according  to  Olivia,  had 
treachery  against  her.     I  can  afford  to  believe  ^  watched  and  ministered  to  his  wife, 
ftiis  of  you  ;  but  I  can  not  believe  it  of  Paul/     'Was  that  the  tenderest  face  that  looked  down 
Marchmont.    That  man  is   my  wife's   natural  '  upon  my  darling  as  she  lay  on  her  sick-bed?' he 
enemy.     If  he  has  been  here  during  my  illness,  >  thought.     'I  had  almost  as  soon  have  had  a  ghoul 
he  has  been  here  to  plot  against  her.     When  he  ',  to.  watch  by  my  poor  dear's  pillow.' 
came  here,  he  came  to  attempt  her  destruction.  '/ 
She  stands  between  him  and  this  estate.    Long  i 

ago,  when  I  was  a  careless  school-boy,  my  poor  '  ————♦♦♦ 

friend  John  l^archmont  told  me  that,  if  ever  the  '■ 

day  came  upon  which  Mary's  interests  should  be  :  CHAPTER  XXII. 

opposed  to  the  interests  of  her  cousin,  that  man  ' 
would  be  a  dire  and  bitter  enemy  ;  so  much  the  > 
.     more  terrible   because   in    all    appearance   her;     Edward  Arundel  lay  awake  through  the  best 
friend.    The  day  came  ;' and  I,  to  whom  the  or- /part  of  that   November  night,  listening  to  the 
phan  girl  had  been  left  as  a  sacred  legacy,  was  >  ceaseless  dripping  of  the  rain  upon  the  terrace, 
'   not  by  to  defend  her.     But  I  have  risen  from  the  \  and  thinking  of  Paul  Marchmont.     It  was  of  this 
.  bed  that  many  have  thought  a  bed  of  death  ;  and  ',  man  that  he  must  demand  an  account  of  his  wife. 
I  come  to  this  place  with  one  indomitable  resolu-  \  Nothing  that  Olivia  h^d  told  him  had  in  any  way 
tion  paramount  in  my  breast — the  determiliation  >  lessened  this  determination.     The  little  slipper 
to  find  my  wife,  and  to  bring  condigji  punishment  ^  found  by  the  water's  edge  ;  the  placard  flapping 
upon  the  man  whb  has'-done  her  wrong.'  ;on  the  moss-grown  pillar  at  the  entrance  to  the 

Captain  Arundel  spoke  in  a  low  voice  ;  but  his  ^P^rk';  the  stery  of  a  possible  suicide,  or  a  more 
passion  was  not  the  more  terrible  because  of  the  ?  P^o'^able  accident— all  these  things  were  as  no- 
suppression  of  those  common  outward  evidences /^'^S  beside  the  young  man's  suspicion  of  Paul 

■ .      .-     --  'Marchmont.     He  had  pooh-poohed  Johns  dread 

of  his  kinsman  as  weak  and  unreasonable  ;  and 
now,  with  the  same  unreason,  he  was  ready  to 
condemn  this  man,  whom  he  ha.d  never  seen,  as 
a  traitor  «nd  a  plotter  against  his  young  wife. 

He  lay  tossing  from  side  to  side  all  that  night, 
weak  and  feverish,  with  great  drops  of  cold  per- 
spiration rolling  down  his  pale  face,  sometimes 
falling  into  a  fitful  sleep,  in  whose  distorted 
dreams  Pau'l  Marchmont  was  forever  present, 
now  one  man,  now  another.  There  was  no.sense 
of  fitness  in  tljese  dreams  ;  for  sometimes  Edward 
Arundel  and  the  artist  were  wrestling  toeether 
with  newly-sharpened  daggers  in  their  eager 
hands,  each  thirsting  for  the  other's  blood  ;  ana 
in  the  next  moment  they  were  friends,  and  had 
been  friendly — as  it  seemed — for  years. 

The  young  man  woke  from  one  of  these  last 
dreams,  with  words  of  good-fellowship  upon  his 


by  which  fury  ordinarily  betrays  itself.     He  re- 
'  lapsed  into  thoughtful  silence. 

Olivia  made  no  answer  to  any  thing  that  he  had 
said.  She  sat  looking  at  him  steadily,  with  an 
admiring  awe  in  her  face.  How  splendid  he  was, 
this  young  hero,  even  in  his  sickness  and  feeble- 
ness!  How  splendid,  by  reason  of  the  grand 
couragi,  the  chivalrous  devotion,  that  shone  out 
of  his  blue  eyes  ! 

The  clock  struck  eleven  while  the  cousins  sat 
opposite  to  each  other — only  divided,  physically, 
by  the  width  of  the  tapestried  hearth-rug  ;  but, 
oh,  how  many  weary  miles  asunder  in  spirit! — 
and  Edward  Arundel  rose,  startled  from  his  soi'- 
rowful  reverie. 

'If  I  were  a  strong  man,'  he  said,  'I  would  see 
Paul  M£\rchmont  to-night.  But  I  must  waft  till 
to-morrow  morning.  'At  what  time  does  become 
to  his  painting-room  .'' 


,..  -.  L,    .  1     1,     u      *T  •  u  •  i-i  >  lips,  to  find  the  morning  light  gleaming  through 

•At  eight  o  clock  when  the  mornings  are  bright;   jj^f^'^^^^^^  openings  in  the  damask  wilfdow-cur- 
uut  later  when  the  weathens  dull.'  jtains.and  Mr.  Morrison  laying  out  his  master's 

'At  eight  o  clock !    I  pray  Heaven  the  sun  may  \  dressing  apparatus   upon   the  carved  oak  toilet- 
shine  early  to-morrow.     I  pray  Heaven  I  mayUabl©   °     ^"^  '^ 

not  have  10  wait  long  before  1  find  myself  face  to  ■,     Captain  Arundel  dressed  'himself  as  fast  as  he 
face  with  that  man  !     Good-night,  Olivia!'  could,  with  the  assistance  of  the  valet,  and  then 

He  took  a  candle  from  a  labl«  near  the  door,  \  made  his  way  down  the  broad  staircase,  with  the 
and  lit  it  almost  mechanically.  He  found  Mr.  help  ol  his  cane,  upon  which  he  had  need  to  lean 
Morrison  waiting  for  him,  very  sleepy  and  de-  pretty  heavily,  for  he  was  as  weak  as  a  child, 
spondent,  in  a  large  be<lchamber  in  which  Cap-;  'You  had  better  give  me  the  branriy-flask,  Mor- 
tap  Arundel  had  never  slept  before — a  dreary  Prison,*  he  said.  'I  am  going  out  before  break- 
apartment,  decked  out  with  the  faded  splendors  5  fast.  You  may  as  well  come  with  me,  by-the- 
of  the  past ;  a  chamber  in  which  the  restless  ;  by  ;  for  I  doubt  if  I  could  walk  as  far  as  1  want 
sleeper  might  expect  to  see!  a  phantom  lady  in  a  ;  to  go,  without  the  help  of  your  arm.* 
ghostly  sack,  cowering  oier  the  .embers,  and^     In  the  ball  Captain  Arundel  found  one  of  th« 


JOH.N    MAKCHMONT'S  LEGACY. 


SI 


servants.  The  weslera  door  was  open,  and  the  ^  rather  an  eccentricity  all'ected  by  artists,  and 
man  was  standing  on  the  threshold  lootfing  out  at  j^perniitled  as  the  wild  caprice  of  irjesponsible 
the  morning.  The  rain  had  ceased  ;  but  the  day  ^beings,  not  amenable  to  the  laws  that  govern  ra- 
did  not  yet  promise  to  be  very  bright,  lor  the  sun  Mional  and  ropeciable  people.  .  •    • 

gleamed  like  a  ball  of  burnished  copper  t*hrough  v  Edward  Aiundel  sharply  scrutinized  the  face 
a  pale  Novembec  mist.'  \and  figure  of  tlie  artist.     He  cast  a  rapid  glance. 

•Da  you  know  if  Mr.  Paul  Marchmont  has  gone  ;  round  the  bare  whitewashed  wa'ls  of  the  shed, 
down  to  the  boat-house?' Edward  asked.  -trying  to  read   ^eu   in   those   bare  walls  some 

'Ves,  Sir,' the  man  answered  ;  '1  met  him  just , chance  clew  to  the  painter's  character,  liut 
now  iii^e  quadrangle.  He'd  been  havinga  cup  there  was  not  much  to  be  gleaned  from  the  de- 
of  coffee  with  rny. mistress.'  tails  of  that  almost  empty  chamber.     A  dismal, 

Edward  started.  'Ihey  were  friends,  then, ;  black-lowking  iron  stove,  with  a  crooked  chim- 
Paul  Marchmont  and  Ulivia  ! — frien^,  but  surely  I  ney,  stood  in  one  corner.  A  great  easer  occupied 
n«t  allies!  Whatever  villainy  this  rnan  might  be  ,  the  centre  of  the  room.  A'  sheet  of  tin,  nailed 
<-.apable  of  committing,  Olivia  -must  at  least  be  ,  upon  a  wooden  shutter,  swung  backward  and  for- 
guiltless  of  any  deliberate  treachery.  •  ward  against  the  northern  window.,  blown  to  and 

Captain  Arundel  took  his  servant's  arm  and  I  fro  by  the  damp  wfiid  that  crept  in  through  the 
■walked  out  into  the  quadrangle,  and  from  the  >  crevices  in  the  frame-work  of  the  roughly-fash- 
quadrangle  to  tha  low-lying  woody  swamp,  where  ioned  casement.  A  heap  of  canvases  were  piled 
the  stunted  trees  looked  grim  and  wierd-like  iu  against  the  walls,  and  here  and  there  a  half- 
their  leafless  ugliness.  Weak  as  the  young  man  ;fuiished  picture — a  lurid  Tuneresque  landscape; 
was,  he  walked  rapidly  across  the  sloppy-  ground,  a  black  stormy  sky  ;  a  rocky  mountain-pass,  dyed 
which  had  been  almost  floodetf  by  the  continual  blood-red  bj'  the  setting  sun-;-was  propped  up 
rajns.  He  was  borne  up  by  his  ticFce  desire  to  against  the  whitewashed  back-ground.  Scattered 
be  face  to  face  with  Paul  Marchmont.  The  scraps  of  water-color,  crayon,  old  engravings, 
savage  energy  of  his  mind  wa*stronger  than  any  sketches  torn  and  tumbled,  bits  of  rock- work  and 
physical  debility.  He  dismissed  Mr.  Morrison  as  foliage,  lay  littered  about  the  floor;  and  on  a 
soon  as  he  was  within  sight  of  the  boat-house,  paint-stained  deal-table  of  the  roughest  and  plain- 
and  went  on  alone,  leaning  on  his  stick,  and '  est  fashion  were  gathered  the  color-lubes  and 
pausing  now  and  then  to  draw  breath,  angry  with  pallets,  the  brushes  and  sponges  and  dirty  cloths, 
himself  for  his. weaknesH.  the  greasy  and 'sticky  tin  cans,,  which  form  the 

i  The  boat-house,  and  tlie  pavilion  above  it,  had  paraphernalia  of  an  artist.  Opposite  the  north- 
Deen  patched  up  by  some  country  workmen.  A  ern  window  was  the  inoss-grown  stone  staircase 
handful  of  plaster  here  and  therfc,  a  little  new .  leadingjjp  to  the  pavilion  over  the  boat-house, 
brick-work,  and  a  mended  window- frame,  bore  Mr.  Marchmont  had  built  his  painting-rOom 
witness  of  tliis.  The  ponderous  old-fashioned  against|^he  side  pf  the  pavilion,  in  such  a  manner 
wooden-shutters  had  been  repaired,  and  a  good  as  to  shut  in  the  staircase  and  doorway  which 
deal  of  the  work  which  had  been  begun  in  John  formed  the  only  entrance  to  it.  His  excuse  for 
Marchmont's  lifetime  had  now,  in  a  certain  rough  ■  the  awkwardness  of  this  piece  of  architecture 
manner,  been  completed.  The  place  which  had  was  the  impossibility  of  otherwise  getting  the 
hitherto  appeared  likely  to  fall  into  utter  decay  all-desirabic  northern  light  for  the  illumination 
had  been  rendered  wither-tight  and  habitable  ;   of  his  rough  studio.  , 

the  black  smoke  creeping  slowly  Howard  from  the  '  This  was -the  chamber  in  which  Eflward  Arun- 
ivy-covered  chimney,  gave  evidence  of  ocoupa-  del  found  the  man  from  whom  he  came  to  de- 
tion.  Beyond  this,  a  large  wooden  shed,  with  a  mand  an  account  of  his  wife's  disappearance, 
wide  window  fronting  the  north,  had  been  Tlie  artist  was  evidently  quite  prepared  to  receive 
erected  close  against  the  boat-house.  This  rough  his  visitor.  He  made  no  pretense  of  being  taken 
shed  Edward  Arundel  at  once  .understood  to  be  olf  his  guard,  as  a  meaner  pretender  might  have 
the  painting-room  which  the  artist  had  built  for  done.  One  of  Paul  Marchmont's  theories  was, 
himself.  :  that  as  it  is  only  a  fool  who  would  use  brass 

He  paused  a  moment  outside  the  door  of  this :  where  he  could  as  easily  employ  gold,  so  it  is 
siicd.  A  man's  voice — a  tenor  voice,  rather  thin  only  1  fool  that  tells  a  lie  when  he  can  conve- 
and    metallic   in   quality — was    singing   a   scrap    niently  tell  the  truth. 

of^Jossini  upon  the  other  side  of  the  frail  woodr,  •Captain  Arundel,  1  believe.''  he  said,  pua^iing 
wock.  ,  a  chair  forward  for  his  viiitor.     '1  am  sorry  to 

Edward  Arundel  knocked  with  the. handle  of  say  I  recognize  you  by  your  appearance  of  ill 
his  stick  upon  the  door.  The  voice  left  olF  sing-  health.  Mrs.  Marchmont  told  me  you  wanted  to 
ing  to  say 'Come  in.'  see  me.     Does  my  meerschaum  annoy  you  .'     I'll 

The  soldier  opened  the  door,  crossed  the  p^t  it  out  if  it  does.  No?  Then,  if  you'll  allow 
threshold,  and  stood  face  to  (ace  with  Paul  me,  I'll 450  on  smoking.  Some  people  say  to- 
Marchmont  in  the  bare  w/ooden  shed.  The  painter  bacco-smoke  gives  a  tone  to  one's  pictures.  If 
had  dressed  himself  for  his  work.  His  coat  and  so,  mine  ought  to  be  Rembrandt's  in  depth  of 
waistcoat  lay  upon  a  chair  near  the  door.     He    color.' 

had  put  ou  a  canvas  jacket,  and  had  drawn  a  Edward  Arundel  dropped  into  the  chair  that 
loose  pair  of  linen  trowsers  over  tho*ic  which  he-  had  been  offered  to  him.  If  he  could  by  any 
longed  to  his  usual  costume.  So  far  as  this  paint-  possibility  have  rejected  even  this  amountuf  hos- 
besmeared  coat  and  trowser^  went,  nothing  could  pitalily  from  Paul  Marchmont  he  would  have 
have  been  more  slovenly  than  Paul  Marchmont's  done  so;  but  he  was  a  great  deal  too  weak  to 
appearance;  but  some  tinge  of  foppery  exhibited  stand,  and  he  kneW  that  his  interview  with  the 
itself  in  the  black  velvet  sraoking-cap,  which  con-   artist  must  be  a  long  one. 

traated  vvith  and  set  olf  the  silvery  whiteness  of  '  Mr.  Marchmont,'  he  said,  •  if  my  cousin 
his  hair,  as  wull  as  in  the  delicate  curve  of  his  Olivia  told  you  that,  you  might  expect  to  see  mo 
amber  mustache.  A  mustache  was  not  a  very  (here  to-day,  she  most  likely  told  you  a  great  deal 
common  adornment  in  the  year  1846.    It  was  ^  more.    Did  sh(^tell  you  that  I  look  to  you  to  ac- 


9ft 


JOHN  MAKCHMONT'S  LEGACY. 


count    to    ni»    Ibi'     the    disappearance    of    my    Paul  Marchmont's  seemed  the  persohification  pi 
^ife  ?'  ifi!iocence.     Not  anery  innocence,  indignant  that 

Paul  Marchmont  shrugged  his  shoulders,  as  its  purity  should*have"  been  suspec|pd  ;  but  the 
who  shoiild  say,  '  This  young  man  is  an  invalid,  matter-pf-fact,  comfiionpiace  innocence  of  a  man 
I  must  not  suffer  myself  to  be  aggravated  by  his  of  the  world,  who  is  a  great  deal  too  clever  to 
absurdity.'  Then  taking  his  meerschaum  from  play  any  bazardous  and  villainous  game, 
his  lips,  he  set  it  down,  and  seated  himself  at  a  '  You  can  perhaps  answer  me  this  question,  Mr. 
few  paces  from  Edward  Arundel,  on  ihe  lowest  Marchmoi'it,' said  Edward  Arundel.  *VVby  was 
of  the  moss-grown  steps  leading  up  to  the  pa-  my  wife  doubted  when  she  told  the  story  of  her 
Tilion.  *  marriage?  '  / 

'My  dear  Captain  Arundel,'  he  said,  very  The  artist  smiled,  and  rising  from  his  seat  upon 
gravely,  '  your  cousin  did  repeat  to  me  a  great  ,  the  stone  step,  took  a  pocket-book  from  one  of 
deal  of  last  night's  conversation.  She  told  me  the  pockets  ^f  the  coat  that  he  had  been  wearing, 
that  you  had  spoken  of  me  ^'ith  a  degree  of  vio-  '  1  can  answer  that  questiopj'  he  said,  selecting 
lence,  natural  enough,  perhaps,  to  a  h.ot-tempered  a  paper  from  among  others  in  the  pocket-book. — 
young  soldier,  but  in  no  man)ier  justified  by  our    'This  will  answer  it.' 

relations.  When  you  call  upon  me  to  account  He  banded-Edward  Arundel  the  paper,  which 
for  the  disappearance  of  Mary  Marchmont,  you  was  a  letter  folded  lengthways,  and  indorsed, 
act  about  as  rationally  as  if  you  declared  me  '  From  Mrs.  Arundel,  August  Slst.'  Within  this 
answerable  for  the  pulmonary  complaint  that  car-  letter  was  another  paper,  indorsed,  •  Copy  of  lel- 
ried  away  her  father.  IF,  on  the  other  hand,  you  terto  Mrs.  Arundel,  August  28th.* 
call  upon  rne  to  assist  you  in  the  endeavor  to  'You  tad  better  read  the  copy  first,'  Mr. 
fathom  the  mystery  of  her  disappearance,  you  Marchmont  said,  as  Edward  looked  doubtfully  at 
■will  find  me  ready  and   willing  to  aid   you  to  the    the  inner  paper.     , 

Tery  uttermost.     It  is  to  my  inlei^est  as   much  as  '      The  copy  was  vajy  brief,  and  ran  thus:  •> 

to  yours  that  this  mystery  should  be  cleared  up.' ' 

'  And  in  the  mean  time  you  take  possession  of  '  Marchmont  Towers,  ^tugust  28,  ]84d. 

this  estate.''  'Madam, — 1  have    been    given    to   understand 

'  No,  Captain  Arundel.  The  lav^  would  allow  that  your  son.  Captain  Arundel,  within  a  fort- 
me  to  do  so;  but  1  decline  to  touch  one  farthing  ,  night  of  his  sad  accident,  contracted  a  secret 
of  the  revenue  which  this  estate  yields,  or  to  com- '  marriage  with  a  young  lady  whose  name  I,  for 
mit  one  act  of  ownership,  until  the  mystery  of  several  reasons,  prefer  to  withhold.  If  you  cap 
Mary  Marchmont's  disappearance,  or  of  her  oblige  me  by  informing  me  whether  there  is  any 
death,  is  cleared  up.'  »  foundation  for  this  statement  you  will  confer  a 

'The   mystery   of   her  death!'    said    Edward    very  great  favor  upon  , 

Arundel;  '  you  believe,  then,  that  she  is  dfcad  .'  .'  Your  obedient  servant, 

'I   anticipate  nothing;  .1   think  nothing,'   an-  '  Paul  Marchmont.' 

swered  the  artist;  'I  only  wait.     The  mysteries  v 

of  life  are  so  many  and  so  incomprehensible —        The  answer  to  this  letter,  in  the  hand  of  Ed- . 
the  stories,  which  are  every  day  to  be  read  by    ward  Arundel's  mother,  was  equally  brief : 
any  man  who  takes  the  trouble  to  look  through  .  '  -  • 

a  newspajjer,  are  so  strange,  and   savor  so  much  '  Dangerfield  PaRk,  .Ingust  31,  1848. 

of  the  imprbbabilities  of  a  novel-writer's  first  'Sir, — In  reply  to  your  inquiry,  I  fceg  to  state 
wild  fiction — that  I  am  ready  to  believe  every  that  there  can  be  no  foundation  whatever  for  the 
thing  and  anything.  Mary  Marchmont  struck  report  to  which  you  allude.  My  son  is  too  honor- 
me,  from  the  first  moment  in  which  I  saw  her,  as  able  to  contract  a  secret  marriage;  an.d  aJthongh 
sadly  deficient  in  mental  power.  Nothing  she  his  present  unhappy  state  renders  it.  impossible 
could  do  would  astonish  me.  She  may  be  hiding  for  me  to  receivethe  assurance  from  his  own  lips, 
herself  away  from  us,  prompted  only  by  some  I  my  confidence  in  his  high  principles  justifies  me 
eccentric  fancy  of  her  own.  She  may  have  fal-  in  contradicting  any  such  report?  as  that  which 
len  into  the  power  of  designing  people.     She  may  ,  forms  the  subject  of  your  letter. 


have  purposely  placed  her  slipper  by  the  water- 
side in  order  to  give  the  idea  of  an  accident  or  a 
suicide,  or-  she    may  have  dropped   it  there  by  , 
chance  and  walked  barefoot  to  the  nearest  rail- ; 
way   station.      She   acted    unreasonably   before 
when  she  ran  away  from   Marchmont  Towers  ; 
she  may  have  acted  unreasonably  again.' 
'You  do  not  think,  then,  that  she  is  dead  .'  ' 


'  I  am,  Sir,  yours  obediently, 

'  Letitia  Arundel.' 

The  soldier  stood,  mute  and  confounded,  with 
his  mother's  letter  in  his  hand.  Jt  seemed  as  if 
every  creature  had  been  against  the  helpless  girl 
whom  he  had  made  his  wife.  Every  hand  had 
been  lifted  to  drive  her  from  the  house  that  was 


I  hesitate  to  form  any  opinion  ;  I  positively  her  own;  to  drive  her  out  upon  the  world,  of 
decline  to  express  one.'  which  she  was  ignorant,  a  wanderer  and  an  out- 
Edward  Arundel  gnawed  savagely  at  the  ends  cast;  perhaps  to  drive  her  to  a  cruel  death. 
of  his  mustache.  This  man's  cool  imperturba-  'You  can  scarcely  wonder  if  the  receipt  of 
bility,  which  had  none  of  the  studied  smoothness  that  letter  confirmed  me  in  my  previous  belief 
of  hypocrisy,  but  which  seemed  rather  the  plain  that  Mary  Marchmont's  story  of  a  marriage  arose 
candor  of  a  thorough  man  of  the  world,  who  had  out  of  the  weakness  of  a  brain  never  too  strong, 
no  wish  to  pretend  to  any  sentiment  he  did  not  and  at  that  time  very  niuch  enfeebled  by  the 
feel,  baffled  and  infuriated  the  passionate  young  effect  of  a  fever  ' 

soldier.  Was  it  possible  that  Ihis  man,  who  met  ;  Edward  Arundel  was  silent.  He  crushed  his 
him  with  such  cool  self  assertion,  who  in  no  man-  mother's  letter  in  his  hand.  Even  his  mother — 
ner  avoided  any  discussion  of  Mary  Marchmont's  even  his  mother — that  tender  and  compassionate 
diiappearance — was  it  possible  that  he  could  have  woman,  whose  protection  he  had  so  freely  prom- 
had  any  treacherous  and  guilty  part  in  that  ca-  ised,  tcnyears  before,  in  the  lobby  of  Drury  Lane,  I 
lamity.'    Olivia's  manner  looked  like  gdilt ;  but  to  John    Marchmont's  -motherles*    child — even 


JOHN  MARCHMOiNl'S  LKGACT. 


iO 


she,  by  some  hideous  fatalily,  had  helped  lo 
Tiring  grief  and  shame  upon  the  lonely  girl.  All 
this  story  of  his  young  wife's  disappearance 
seemed  enveloped  in  a  wretched  obscurity, 
through  whose  ihick  darkneis  iie  could-  not  pen- 
etrate. He  felt  himself  encompassed  by  a  web 
of  mystery  athwart  which  it  was  iraipossible  for 
him  to  cut  his  way  to  the  truth.  He  asked  ques- 
tion after  question,  and  received  answers  which 
seemed  freely  given;  but  the  story  remained  as 
dark  as  even.  What  did  it  all  mean?  VVhai 
was  the  clew  to  the  mystery.'  Was  this  man, 
Paul  Marchmont — busy  among  liis  unfinished 
pictures,  and  bearing  in  his  every  action,  m  his 
every  word,  the  stamp  of  an  easy-going,  free- 
spoken  soldier  of  fortune — likely  to  have  been- 
guilty  of  afiy  dirk  and  subtle  villainy  against 
the  missing  girl"?  He  had  disbelieved  in  the 
marriage  -,  hut  he  had  had  some  reason  for  his 
doubt  of  a  fact  that  could  not  fery  well  be  wel- 
come to  him. 

The  young  man  rose  from  his  chair,  and  stood 
irresolute,  brooditur  <)ver  these  things. 

•  Come,  Captain  Arundel,'  cried  Paul  March- 
mont, heartily,  'believe  me,  though  I  have  not 
much  suj)f  rlluoii^  sentimentality  lefi  in  my  com- 
position after  a  pretty  long  eneounter  with  the 
world,  still  1  can  truly  sympathize  with  your  re- 
gret for  this  poorsilly  child.  1  hope,  foryour  sake, 
that  she  still  lives,  and  is  hiding  herself  out  of  some 
persistent  folly.  Perhaps,  now  you  are  able  to 
act  in  the  business,  there  may  be  a  better  chance 
of  finding  her.  I  am  old  enough  to  be  your  fa- 
ther, and  am  ready  to  give  you  the  help  of  any 
knowlede;e  of  the  world  which  l  may  have  gath- 
ered in  the  experience  of  a  lifetime.  Will  you 
accept  my  help.-' 

Edward  Arundel  paused  for  a  moment  with 
his  head  still  bent,  and  his  eyes  fixed  upon  the 
ground.  Then  suddenly  lifting  bis  head,  he 
looked  full  in  the  artist's  face  as  he  answerd  him. 

•No!'  he  cried.  '  'Your  offer  may  be  made 
in  all  good  faith,  and  if  so,  I  thank  you  for  it  ; 
but  no  one  loves  this  missing  girl  as  I  love 'her  ; 
no  one  has  so  good  a  righj  as'  I  have  to  protect 
and  shelter  her.  I  will  look  for  my  wife,  alone, 
unaided;  except  by  such  h4lp  as  1  pray  that  (iod 
may  give  me.' 


CHAPTER  XXUI. 

IK  THE  DAUK. 

Edward  .\RnsMiEL  walked  slowly  back  to  the 
Towers,  shaken  in  body,  perplexed  in  mind,  baf- 
fied,  disappointed,  and  most  miserable;  the  young 
husband,  whose  married  life  had  been  shut  within 
the  compass  of  a  brief  honey-moon,  went  hack 
to  that  dark  and  gloomy  maiision  within  whose 
encircling  walls  Mary  had  pined  and  despaired. 

•Why  (lid  she  stop  here?'  ho  thought;  'why 
difln'lshe  come  to  me?  i  thoucht  tier  first  im- 
pulse would  have  brought  her  to  me.  I  thought 
my  |)nor  childish  love  wonlil  have  set  out  on  foot 
to  seek  her  husband,  If  need  were.' 

He  groped  his  way  feebly  and  wearily  amidst 
the  leafless  wood,  and  through  the  rotting  vege- 
tation decaying  in  oozy  slime  beneath  the  black 
shelter  of  the  naked  trees.  He  gropi  d  his  way 
toward  the  dismal  eastern  front  of  the  great  stone 
dnrelliog-houte,  his  face  always  turned  toward 


the  blank  windows  that  stared  down  at  him  from 
the'discolored  walls. 

'Oh,  if  they  could  speak!'  he  exclaimed,  al- 
most beside  himself  in  his  perplexity  and  des- 
peration; 'if  they  could  speak!  If  those  cruel 
walls  could  speak,  and  tell  me  what  my  darlmg  * 
sutiered  within  their  shadow!  -If  they  could 
tell  me  why  she  despaired,  and  ran  awa}!  to  hide 
herself  from  iter  husband  and  protector!  //'they 
could  speak!' 

He  ground  his  teeth  in  a  passion  of  sorrowful 
rage. 

'  1  should  gain  as  much  by  questioning  yonder 
sfonc-wall  as  by  tallnng  to  my  cousin,  Olivia 
Marchmont,'  he.  thought,  presently.  '  Why  is 
that  woman  so  venomous  a  creature  in  her  hatred 
of  my  innocent  wife?  Why  is  it  that,  whether  1 
threaien'Or  whether  I  appeal,  I  can  gain  noHiing 
from  her — nothing  ?  She  baffles  me  as  completely- 
by  her  measured  answers,  which  seem  to  rep^-  to 
my  qufstions,  and  which  yet  tell  me  nothing,  as 
if  she  were  a  brazen  image  set  up  by  the  dark 
ignorance  of  a  heathen  people,  and  dumb  in  the 
absence  of  an  impostor-priest.  She  baffles  me, 
question  her  how  1  will.  And  Paul  Marchmont, 
again  — what  have  I  learnad  from  him?  Am  1  a 
fool,  that  people  can  prevaricate  and  lie  to  me 
like  this?  Has  Jtiy  brain  no  sense,  and  my  arm 
no  strength,  that  1  can  not  wring  the  truth  from 
the  false  throats  of  these  wretches,?'  • 

The  young  man  gnashed  his  teeth  again  in  the 
violence  of  liis  rage. 

Yes,  it  was  like  a  dream;  it  w^s  like  nothing 
but  a  dream.  In  dreams  he  had  often  felt  this 
terrible  sense  of  impotence  wrestling,  with  a  mad 
desire  to  achieve  something  or  other.  But  never 
before  in  his  waking  hours  had  the  young  soldier 
experienced  such  a  sensatioti.  - 

;  He  stopped,  irresolute,  almost  bewildered,  looK- 
ing  back  at  the  boat-house,  a  black  spot  far  away 
down  by  the  sedgy- brink  of  the  slow  river,  and 
then  again  turning  his  face  toward  the  monoto- 
neus  lines  of  windows  in  the  eastern  frontage  of 
Marchmont  Towers. 

'  1  let  that  man  play  with  me  to-day, 'he  thought; 
'but  our  reckoning  is  tO'  come.  We  hare  not 
done  with  each  other  yet. ' 

He  walked  on  to  the  low  archway  leading  into 
the  quadrangJe. 

The  room  which  had  been  John  Marchmont's 
:  study,  and  ♦'hich  his  widow  had  been  wont  to 
!  occupy  'since  his  death,  looked  into  this  quad- 
i  rangle.  Edward  Arundel  saw  his  cousin's  dark 
head  bending  over  a  book,  or  a  desk  perhaps,  be- 
hind the  window. 

'  Let  her  beware  of  me,  if  sha  has  done  any 
wrong  to  my  wife!'  he  thought.  'To  which  of 
these  people  am  I  to  look  for  an  account  of  my 
poor  lost  girl?  To  which  of  these  two  am  I  to 
look?  Heaven  guide  me  to  find  the  guilty  one; 
and  Heaven  have  mercy  upon  that  wretched 
creature  when  the  hour  of  reckoning  comes,  for 
,  I  will  have  none.' 

Olivia  Marchmont,  looking  through  the  win- 
dow, saw  her  kinsman's  face  while  this  thought 
was  in  his  mind.  The  exjircssion  which  she  saw 
',  there  whs  so  terrible,  so  merciless,  so  sublime  in 
its  grand  and  vengeful  beauty,  that  her  own  face 
i  blanched  even  to  a  paler  hue  than  that  which 
hsd  lately  become  habitual  lo  it. 

'Am  1  .afraid  of  himr'  slie  tboiicht,  as  shr 
pressed  her  I'orehend  against  the  cold  glass,  and 
by  a  physical  etfort  restrained  the  convulsive 
trembling  that  had  suddenly  shaken  her  frame. 


114  JOllfN  MARUHlAONT'S  LEGACY. 

'  Am  1  afraid  ot  him:  J\o!  what  injury  can  he '  How  often  he  and  Mary  had  played  together  in 
inflict  upon  me  worse,  than  that  which  he  has  that  very  window!  and  how  she  had  always  lost* 
done  me  from  the  very  first:  If  he  could  drag  her  pawns,  and  ieft  bishops  and  knights  unde- 
me  to  a  scaffold,  and  deliver  me  with  his  own  fendecj,  while  trying  to  achieve  impossible  con- 
hands  into  the  grasp  of  the  hangman,  he  would  quests  with  her  queen!  The  young  man  paced 
do  me  no  deeper  wrong  than  he  has  done  me  slowly  backward  and  forward  across  the  old- 
from  the  hour  of  my  earliest  remembrance  of  fashioned  bordered  carpet,  trying  to  think  what 
him.  He  fould  inflict  no  new  pangs,  no  sharper  he  should  do.  He  must  form  some  plan  of  action 
torture,  than  1  have  been  accustomed  to  sutFer  at  ia  his  own  mind,,  he  thought.  There  was  foul 
his  hands.  He  does  not  lore  me.  He  has  never  work  somewhere,  he  most  implicitly  believed  ; 
loved  me.  He  never  will  love  me.  That  is  my  and  it  was  for  him  to  discover  the  motive  of  the 
wrong;  and  it  is  for  that  1  take  my  revenge!'  '  treachery  and  the  person  of  the  traitor. 

She  lifted   her  head,  which  had   rested  in  a  Paul  Marchmont  1  Paul  Marchmont ! 

sullen  attitude  against  the  glass,  and  looked  at  His  mind  always  traveled  back  to  this  point, 
the  soldier's  figure  slowly  advancing,  toward  the  :  Paul    Marchmont   was   Mary's    natural  enemy, 

western  side  of  the  house.          '  Paul  Marchmont  was  thei-efore  surely  the  man 

Then,  with  a  sniile-^the  same  horrible  smile  to  be  suspected,  the  man  to  be  found  out  and  d^ 

which  Edward  Arundel  had  seen  light  upherface  feated.                                              * 

on  the  previous  night—she  muttered  between  her  And   yet,   if  there  was   any  truth   in   appear- 

set  teeth,  ances,  it  was  Olivlb.  who  was  most  inimical  to  the 

'^tiall  I  be  sorry  because  this  vengeance  has  missing  girl ;   it  was   Olivia    whom    Mary  had 

fallen  across  my  pathway:     Shall  I  repent,  and  feared;  it  was   Olivia    who    had    driven   John 

try  to  undo  what  I  have  done:     Shall  I  thrust  Marchmont's  orphan  child  from  her  home  once, 

myself  between  others  and  Mr.  Edward  Arundel :  and  who  might,  by  the  same  power  to  tyrannize 

Shall  /  make  mjself  the  ally  and  champion  of  and  torture  a  weak  and  yielding  nature,  have  so 

this  gallant  soldier,  who  seldom  speaks  to  me  ex-  banished  her  again.                       "           - 

cept  to  insult  and  upbraid  me :     Shall  1  take" jus-  Or  these  two,  Paul  and  Olivia,  might  ooth  hate 

tice  into  my  hands,  and  interfere  for  my  kins-  the   defenseless   girl,   and   njight  have  between 

man's  benefit:    No;  he  has  chOsen  to  threaten  them  plotted  a  wrong  against  her. 

me  ;  iie  has  chosen  to-believe  vile  things  of  me.  'Who  will  tell  me  the  truth  about  my  lost  dar- 

Froni  the  first  nis  indifference  has  been  next  kin  ling.''  cried  Edward  Arundel.     'Who  will  help 

to  insolence.     Let  him  take  care  of  himself.'  me  to  look  for  my  missing  love  :' 

Edward  Arundel  took  no  heed  of  the  gray  eyes  His  lost  darling  ;  his  missing  love.     It  was  thus 

that  watched  him  with  such  a  vengeful  light  in  that  the  young  man  spoke  of  his  wife.  That  dark 

their  fixed  gaze.     He  was  still  thinking  of  his  thougljt  which  had  been  suggested  to  him  by  the 

missing  wife,  5tiU  feeling,  to  a  degree  that  was  words  of  Olivia,  by  the  mute  evidence  of  the  lit- 

intolerably   painful,' that  miserable   dream-like  tie  bronze  slipper  picked  up  near  the  river-brink, 

sense  of  utteivhelplessness  and  prostration.  had  never  taken  root,  or  held  even  a  temporary 

'What  am  I  to  do:'  he  thought.     'Shall  I  be  place  in  his  breast.     He  would  not—nay,  more, 

forever  going  backward  and  forward  between  my  he  could  not — think  that  his  wife  was  dead.    In 

Cousin    Olivia    and   Paul   Marchmont:    forever  all  his  confused  and  miserable  dreams  that  dreary 

questioning  them,  first  one  and  then  the  other,  and  November  night,  no  dream  Irttd  ever  shown  him 

never  getting  any  nearer  to  the  truth  ?'               .  thai.    No  image  of  death  had  mingled  itself  with 

He   asked  himself  this  question,  because  the  the  distorted   shadows   that  had   tormented  his 

extreme  anguish,  the  intense  anxiety,  which  he  sleep.     No  still  while  face  had  looked  up  at  him 

had   endured,  seemed    to    have    magnified   the  through  a  veil  o.f  murky  waters.     No  meaning 

smallest  events,  and  to  have  multiplied  a  hun-  sob   of  a  rushing  Stream   had  mixed  its  dismal 

dredfold  the  lapse  of  time.     It  seemed  as  if  he  sound  with  the  many  voices  of  his  slumbers.  No; 

had  already  spent  half  a  lifetime  in  his  search  he  feared  all  manner  of  unknown  sorrows  :  he 

after  John  Marchmont's  lost  daughtet-.  looked  vaguely  forward  t(^a  sea  of  difficulty,  to 

'Oh  my  friend,  my  friend  !'  he  thought,  assome  be  waded  across  in  blindness  and  bewilderment 
faint  link  of  association,  sotne  memory  thrust  before  he  could  clasp  his  rescued  wife  in  his 
upon  him  by  the  aspect  of  the  place  in  which  he  arms  ;  but  he  never  thought  thut  she  was  dead, 
was,  brought  back  the  simple-minded  tutor  who  Presently  the  idea  came  to  him  that  it  was  out- 
had  taught  him  mathematics  eighteen  years  be-  side  Marchmont  Towers— away  beyond  the  walls 
fore— 'my  poor  friend,  if  this  girl  had  not  been  of  t|,is  grim,  enchanted  castle,  where  evil  spirits 
my  love  and  my  wife,  surely  the  memory  of  your  seemed  to  hold  possession— that  he  should  seek 
trust  in  me  would  be  enough  to  make  me  a  des-  fo^  the  clew  to  his  wife's  hiding-place. 

perate  and  merciless  ^J^^^ge"- °f  ^j;;;- ^r«"?s^      ^  'There  is  Hester,  that  girl  who  was  fond  of 

He  went  into  the  hall,  and.  from  the  hall  to  j^        ,  ^^     j        ,        .g^     ^ 

the  tenantlcss  western  drawing-room — a  dreary  •'...              r            i      n        *    \       > 
luc  n^iiau    \  .    .                    1    ^"j  J       ,     J        ./  somethmg,  perhaps.     [  will  go  to  her. 
chamber,  with  its  grim  and   faded  splendor,  its  ,             &' f  *      i                   & 
stiff,  old-fashioned  furniture  ;  a  chamber  which.  He  went  out  into  the  hall  to  look  for  his  ser- 
unadorned  by  the  presence  of  youth  and  inno-  vant,  the  faithful  Morrison,  who  had  been  eating 
eence,  had  the  aspect  of  belonging  to  a  day  that  a  very  substantial  breakfast  with  the  domestics 
was  gone  and  people  that  were  dead.     So  might  of  the  Towers — 'the  sauce  to  meat'  being  a  pro- 
have  looked  one  of  those  sealed-up  chambers  in  longed   discussion  of  ihe   facts    connected    with 
the  buried  cities  of  Italy,  when  the  doors  were  Mary  Marchmont's  disappearance  and  her  rela- 
opened,  and  eager  living  eyes  first  looked  in  upon  tions  with  Edward  Arundel — and  who  came,  ra- 
the habitations  of  the  dead.  diant  and  greasy  from  the  enjoyment  of  hot  but- 
Edward   Arundel   walked    up    and  down   the  tered  cakes  and  Lincolnshire  bac^i,  at  the  sound 
empty  drawing-room.     There    were    the    ivory  of  his  master's  vpice. 

chessmen  that  he  had  brought  from  India,  under  'I  want  you  to  get  me  some  vehicle,  and  a  lad 

a  "lass  shade  on  an  inlaid  table  in  a  window,  who  will  drive  me  a  few  miles,  Morrison,'  the 


JOHN  MARCHMOI^T'S  LEGACY. 


or. 


young  soldier  said  ;  'or  you  can  drive  me  your-, 
self,  perhaps  ?' 

'Certajniy,  Master  Edward  ;  I  have  driven  your  ; 
Pa  often,  when  we  was  travelin'  together.  I'll  ; 
go  and  see  if  there's  a  phee-aton  or  a  chay  that  ; 
*will  suit  you,  Sir;  something  that  goes  easy  on  ; 
its  springs.' 

'Get  any,thing,'  muttered  Captain  ArundeJ,  'so  ; 
long  as  you  can  get  it  without  loss  of  time.' 

All  fuss  and  anxiety  upon  the  subject  of  his  , 
health  worried  the  yoinig  man.  He  fult  his  head  ' 
dizzied  with  weakness  and  es^itetnent;  his  arm —  ; 
that  muscular  right  arm  whicii  had  done  hint  \ 
good  service  two  years  before  in  an  encountci  ^ 
with  a  tigress — as  Weak  as  the  iewel-l)oimd  wrisi  > 
of  a  delicate  woman.  But  he  chafed  against  anj  \ 
thing  like  consideration  of  his  weakness  ;  he  re-  ; 
belled  against  anything  that  seemed  likely  to  ; 
hinder  him  in  that  one  object  upon  which  all  the  ; 
,    powers  of  his  mind  were  bent,  > 

Mr.  Morrison  went  away  with  some  show  of ) 
briskness,  but  dropped  into  ^  very  leisurely  pace  S 
as  soon  as  he  was  fairly  out  of  his  master's  sight.  ! 
He  went  straight  to  the  stables,  M'here  he  had  a  > 
pleasant  gossip  with  the  grooms  and  hangers-on,'! 
and  amused  himself  further  by  inspecting  every  * 
bit  of  horse-flesh  in  the  Marchmont  stables,  prior  i 
to  selecting  a  quiet  gray  cob  which  he  felt  him- 1 
self  capable  of  driving, -^ind  an  old-fashioned  gig,  ', 
with  a  yellow  body  anfTblack-and-yellow  wheels,  ( 
bearing  a  strong  resemblance  to  a  monstrous  I 
wodHen  wasp.    '  \ 

While   the  faithful   attendant   to  whom  Mrs.  < 
Arundel  had  delegated  the  care  of  her  son  was  1 
thus  employed,  the  soldier  stood  in  the  stone  hall,  t 
looking  out  at  the  dreary  wintry  landscape,  and  \ 
pining  to  hurry  away  across  the  dismal  swamps  { 
to  the  village  in  which  he  hoped  to  hear  tidings  ' 
of  her  l,ie  sought..   He  was  lounging,  in  a  deep  { 
%  oaken  window-seat,   looking   hopelessly   at  th^  ; 
barren  prospect,  that  mpnotonous  expanse  of  flat  J 
moraf^  and  leaden  sky,  when  he  heard  a  footstep  J 
behind    him,   and,  turning   round,   saw   Olivia's 
confidential  servant,  Barbara  Simmons;  the  wo- 
man who  had  watched  by  his  wife's  sick-bed — the 
woman  whom  he  had  compared  to  a  ghoul. 

,She  was  walking  slowly  across  the  hall  tovyard 
Olivia's  rooniAji'hither  a  bell  had  just  summoned  | 
her.  Mrs.  Marchmont  had  lately  grown  fretful  / 
and  capricious,  and  did  not  care  to  be  waited  ' 
upon  by  any  one  except  this  Voman,  who  had  i 
known  her  from  her  childhood,  and  was  no  stran-  > 
ger  to  her  darkest  moods.  '  > 

Edward  Arundel  had  determined  to  appeal  to  t 
every  living  creature   who  was  likely  to  know  | 
any  thing  of   his    wife's   disappearance,  and  he 
•    snatched  the  first  opportunity  ol  questioning  this  1 
woman. 

'Stop,  Mi-g.  Simmons,'  he  said,  mqving  away  I 
from  the  window;  'I  want  to  speak  to  you;  I  want  -; 
to  talk  to  you  about  my  wife.'  t 

The  woman  turned  to  him  with  a  blank  face, ; 
whoso  expressionless  stare  might  mean  either  ( 
genuine  surprise,  or  an  obstinate  determination  ( 
not  to  understand  anything  that  might  be  laid  to  J 
her.  , 

'Your  wife.  Captain  Arundel,'  she  said,  in  ■ 
cold  measured  tones,  but  with  an  accent  of  as-  | 
tonishment.  I 

'Yes,  my  wife.     Mary  Marchnfont,  my  law-', 
fully-wedded   wife.     Look  here,  woman,    cried 
Edward  Arundel, 'if  you  can  not  accept  the  word  j 
of  a  soldier,  and  an  honorable  man,  you  can  per-i 
hapi  beliav*  the  evidence  of  your  eye*,'  \ 


He  took  a  morocco  memorandum-book  from 
his  breast-pocket.  It  was  full  of  letters,  cards, 
bank-notes,  and  miscellaneous  scraps  of  paper, 
carelessly  stuffed  into  it,  and  among  them  Cap- 
tain Arundel  found  the  certificate  of  his  mar- 
riage, which  he  had  put  away  at  random'upon  his 
wedding  morning,  and  which  had  lain  unheeded 
in  his  pocJ{^t-bo»k  ever  since. 

'Look  here!'  fie  cried,  spreading  the  document 
before  the  waiting-woman's  eyes,  and  pointing, 
with  a  «haking  hand,  to  the  lines.  'You  believe 
that,  I  suppose  ?' 

'Oh  yes,  Sfr.'  Barbara  Simmons  answered, 
after  deliberately  reading  the  certificate.  'I 
liave  no  reason  to  disbelieve  it;  no  wi»h  to  disbe- 
lieve it.' 

'No,  [  suppose  not,' muttered  Edward  Arun- 
del,' unless  you  too  are  leagued  with  Paul  March- 
mont.' 

The  woman  did  not  flinch  at  this  hinted  accu- 
sation, but  answered  the  young  man  in  that  slow 
and  emotionless  manner  which  no  change  of  cir- 
cumstance seemed  to  have  power  to  alter. 

'1  a|n  leagued  with  no  one.  Sir,'  «he  said, 
coldly.  'I  serve  no  one  except  my  mistress,  Miss 
Olivia — I  mean  Mrs.  Marchmont.' 

The  study-bell  rang  for  the  second  time  while 
she  was  speaking. 

'I  must  go  to  my  mistress  now.  Sir,'  she  said. 
'You  heard  her  ringing  for  me.' 

'G^p,  then,  and  let  me  see  you  as  you  come 
back.  I  tell  you  I  must  and  will  see  you  and 
speak  to  you.  Every  body  in  this  bouse  tries  to 
avoid  me.  It  seems  as  if  I  was  not  to  get  a 
straight  answer  from  any  one  of  you.  But  I  will 
know  all  that  is  to  be  ktiowii  about  my  lost  wife. 
Do  you  hear,  woman  ?     I  will  know!' 

'I  will  comeback  to  you  directly.  Sir,' Barbara 
Simmons  answered,  quietly. 

The  leaden  calmness  of  this  woman's  manner 
irritated  Edward  Arundel  beyond,  all  power  of 
expression.  Before  his  Cousin  Olivia's  gloomy 
coldness  he  had  been. flung  back  upon  himself  as 
before  an  iceberg;  but  every  now  and  then  some 
sudden  glow  of  fiery  emotion  had  shot  up  amidst 
the  frigid  mass,- lurid  and  blazing,  and  that  ice- 
berg had  for  a  moment,  at  least,  been  transformed 
into  an  angry  and  passionate  woman,  who  might 
in  that  moment  of  fierce  emotion  betray  the  dark 
secrets  of  her  soul.  But  jhis  woman '•  manner 
presented  a  passive  barrier,  athwart  which  the 
young  soldier  was  as  powerleis  to  penetrate  as 
he  would  have  been  to  walk  through  a  block  of 
solid  stone. 

Olivia  was  like  some  black  and  stony  castle, 
whose  barred  windows  bade  defiance  to  the  be- 
sieger, but  behind  whose  narrow  casements  tran- 
sient Hashes  of  light  gleamed  fitfully  upon  the 
watchers  without,  hitting  at  the  mysteries  that 
were  hidden  within  tbe  citadel. 

Bathara  Simmons  resembled  a  black  itone- 
wall,  grimly  confronting  the  eager  traveler,  anj 
giving  no  indication  of  th«  unknown  country  on 
the  other  lidc. 

She  came  back  almost  immediately,  after  being 
only  a  few  moments  in  Olivia's  room — certainly 
not  long  enough  to  consult  with  her  mistress  as 
to  what  she  was  to  say  or  to  leave  unsaid — and 
prescnied  herself  before  Captain  Arundel. 

'If  you  have  any  questions  to  ask,  Sir,  about 
Miss  Marchmont,  about  your  wife,  I  shall  be 
happy  to  answer  them,'  she  said. 

*I  have  a  hundred  questions  to  ask,'  exclaimed 
the  young  nflin:  'but  first  answer  ma  this  one 


96 


JOHN  MARC^MONT'S  LEGACF. 


plainly  and  truthfully  :  Where  do  you  think  py  f  by  his  passionate  agitation,  suddenly  eloquent  by 

wife  has  gone?    What  do  you  think  has  become    reason  of  the  intensity  of  his  feeling,  a  change 

of  her?'  ;  came  over  Barbara's  face.     There  was  no  very 

The  woman  was  silent  for  a  few  moments,  and ;  palpable  evidence  of  emotion  in  that  stolid  coun- 

then  answered  very  gravely,  ;  lenance;  but  across  the  wooden  blankness  of  the 

'1  woCild  rather  not  say  what  I  think,  Sir.'  j  woman's  face  flitted  a  transient  shadow,  which 

'Why  not.''  /  j  was  like  the  shadow  of  feai*. 

•.Because  1  might  say   that  wjiich  would  make;;     »1  tried  to  do  my  duty  to  Miss  Marchmont  as 

you  unhappy.'  '        *  ;!  well  as  to  my  mistress,'  she  said.     '1  waited  on 

'Can   any  thing  be  more  miserable  to  me  than  '  her  faithfully  while  she  was  ill.     I  ^at  up  with 

the  prevarication  which  1  meet  with  on  every  sider'<:  her  six  nights  running.     I  didn't  take  my  clothes 

cried  Edward  Arundel.      "If  you  or  any  one  else  j;  oil  for  a  week.  Thgre  are  folks  in  the  houa^l'who 

will   be  straightforward  with  me.— remembering  :  can  tell  you  as  much. ' 

that  J  come  to  this  place  like  a  man  who  has  risen  ,  'God  knows  1  am  grateful  to  you,  and  will  re- 
from  the  grave,  depending  wholly  on  the  word  of  •  ward  you  for  any  pily  you  may  have  shown  my 
others  for  the  knowledge  of  that  which  is  more  ;  poor  Oariing,'  the  young  man  an.swered.,  in  a  more 
vital  to  me  than  any  thing  upon  ihis  earth — that  ■  subdued  tone;  'only,  if  you  pity  me,  and  wish  to 
person  will  be  the  best  friend  1  have  found  since;,  help  me,  speak  out,  and  sfieak  plainly.  What  do 
1  rose  from  my  sick-bed  to  come  hither.  You  can  <  you  think  has  become  of  my  lost  girl.'* 
have  no  motive — if  you  are  npt  in  Paul  March- ;  'I  can  not  tell  you,  Sir.  As  God  looks  down 
mont's  pay — for  beifig  cruel  to  my  poor  girl.:  upon  me  and  judges  me,  1  declare  to  you  that  1 
Tell  me  the  truth,  then;  speak,  and  speak  fear-  know  no  more  than  you  know.  But  I  think — ' 
lessly.'  •  'You.think  what.'' 

•1  have  no  reason  to  fear,.  Sir,' answered  Bar- •      'That  you   will  never  see    Miss   Marchmont 
bara    Simmons,   lifting  her  faded   eyes    to   the '/again.' 

young  man's  eager  face,  with  a  gaze  ihat  seemed  Edward  Arufidel  started  as  violently  as  if  of  all 
lo  say,  'i^have  done  no  wrong,  and  1  do  not  seniences  this  was  the  last  he  had  expected  to 
shrink  from  justifying  myself.'  'I  have  no  rea-  hear  pronounced.  His  ^sanguine  temperamervt. 
son  to  fear,  Sir;  I  was  piously  brought  up,  and  ■  fresh  in  its  vigorous  and^juntainted  youth,  could 
have  done  my  best  always  to  do  my  duty  in  the  not  grasp  the  thought  of  despair.  He  could  be 
state  of  life  in  which  Providence  has  been  phased  ;  mad  wiih  passionate  anger  against  the  obstacles 
lo  place,  me.  1  liave  not  had  a  particularly  nappy  >  that  separated  him  from  his  wWe,  but  he  could 
life.  Sir;  for  thirty  years  ago  1  lost  all  that  made  not  believe  those  obstacles  to  be  insurmountable, 
lue  happy, .in  them  that  loved  me,  and  had  a  He  could  not  doubt  the  power  of  his  own  devo- 
claim  to  love  me.  I  have  attache^d  myself  to  my  ,  tion  and  courage  to  bring  him  back  his  lost  love, 
mistress;  but  it  isn't  for  me  to  expect  a  lady  like  '  'Never— see  her— again  !' 
her  would  stoop  to  make  me  more  to  her  or  ,  He  repeated  these  words  as  if  they  had  be 
nearer  to  her  than  1  have  a  right  to  be  as  a  ;  longed  to  a  strange  language,  and  he  were  trying 
servant.'  ,  to  make  oyt  their  meaning. 

There  was  no  accent  of  hypocri.sy  or  cant  in;.  'You  think,' he  gasped  hoarsely,  afteV  a  long 
any  one  of  these  deliberately  spoken  words.  It;! pause — 'you  think — that — she  is — dead.'' 
seemed  as  if  in  this  speech  the  woman  had  told;  '1  think  that'she  went  out  of  this  house  in  a 
the  history  of  he^  life;  a  brief,  unvarnished  his-  'j  desperate  state  of  mind.  She  was  seen — not  by 
tury  of  a  barren  life,  out  of  which  all  love  and  ■:  me,  for  1  should  have  thought  it  my  duty  to  stop 
sunlight  had  been  early  svirept  away,  leaving  be-  ,  her  if  1  had  seen  her  so— she  was  seen  by  one  of 
hind  a  desolate  blank  that  was  not  destined  to  be;;  the  servants  crying  and  sobbing  awfully  as  she 
tilled   up   by  any  atleciion  from   the  young  mis- ;!  went  away  upon  that  last  afternoon.'  ^ 

tress  so  long  and  patienCly  served.  \     'And  she  was  never  seen  agaii^' 

>l"  am  faithful   to  my   mistress.  Sir,' Barbara  ;!     'Never  by  me.'  ^ 

Simmons  added,  presently, 'and  1  try  my  best  to  '  'Anjl— you— you  think  she  wtnt  out  of  this 
do  my  duty  to  her.  1  owe  no  duty  to  any  one  ;  house  with  the  intention  of — of— destroying  her- 
else.'  Itself.'' 

'You  owe  a  duty  to  humanity,'  answered  Ed- ;!     The  wgrds  died  away  in  a  hoarse  whisper,  and 
ward  Arundpl.  •  'Woman,  do  you  think  duty  is  a  •  it  was  by  the  motion  of  his  white  lips  that  Bar- 
thing  to  be  measured  by  line  and -rule.'    Christ;;  bara  Simmons   perceived  what   the   young  man 
came  to  save  the  lost  sheep  of  the  children  of  Is- ;!  meant, 
rael;  but  was  He  less  pitiful  to  the  Canaanitish  ^     '1  do.  Sir.' 

woman  wheR  she  carried  her  sorrows  to  His  feet;  ^  'Have  you  any— particular  reason  for  thinking 
You  and  your  mistress  have  made  hard  precepts  Jio.?' 

for  yourselves,  and  have  tried  to  live  by  them  '  'No  rcasbn  beyond  what  I  have  told  you.  Sir;' 
Vou  try  to  circumscribe  the  area  of  your  Chris- ;  Edward  Arundel  bent  his  head,  and  walked 
tian  charity,  and  to  do  good  within  given  limits,  'away  to  hide  his  blanched  face.  He  tried  in-^. 
*rhe  traveler  who  fell  among  thievts  would  have  stinctiveiy  to  conceal  his  mental  suffering,  as  he 
died  of  his  wounds  for  any  help  he  might  have  had  sometimes  hidden  physical  torture  in  an  In- 
had  from  you  if  Re  had  lain  beyond  your  radius,  dian  hospital,  prompted  by  the  involuntary  im- 
Have  you  yet  to  learn  that  Chrretian.iiy  is  cosmo-  pulse  of  a  brave  man.  But  though  the  woman's 
nolitan,  illimitable,  inexhaustible,  subject  to  no  words  had  come  upon  him  like  a  itfUnder-bolt,  he 
laws  of  time  or  space.'  'The  duty  you  owe  to  ;  had  no  belief  in  the  opinion  they  expressed.  No; 
vour  mistress  is  a  duty  that  she  buj  sand  pays  i  his  young  spirit  wrestled  against  and  rejected  the 
for— a  matter  of  sordid  barter,  to  be  settle'd  when  I  awlul  conclusion.  Other  people  might  think 
you  take  your  wages;  the  duty  you  owe  £o  every  i  what  they  chose;  fcut  he  knew  better  tha»  they, 
miserable  creature  in  your  pathway  is  a  sacred  |  His  wife  was  'kot  dead.  His  life  had  been  so 
debt  to  be  accounted  for  to  God."  5  smooth, *o  happy,  £0  prosperous,  so  unclouded 

Ai  the  young  soldier  spoke  thusf  carried  away  |  and  guccMsful,  that  it  was  icarcely  itrangt  he 


JOHN  MARCPMONT'S  LEGAGT. 


97 


should  be  skeptical  of  calamity — that  his  mind 
should  not  be  incapable  of  grasping  the  idea  of  a 
catastrophe  so  terrible  as  Mary's  .nuioide. 

'She  was  intrusted  to  me  by  her  father,' he 
tliought.  'She  gave  her  faith  to  me  before  God's 
altar.  She  cnii  not  have  peiished  bod*  and  soul: 
she  can  not  have  gone  down  lo  destruction  fm 
■want  of  my  arm  out-treiched'  to  save  her.  Gud 
is  too  good  to  permit  such  misery.' 

The  young  soldier's  piety  was  of  the  simples' 
and  most  unqucstionitig  order,  and  involved  nu 
implicit  beiit  I'tiiat  a  right  cause  must  always  b< 
ultimately  victorious.  Willi  (he  same  blind  faitl. 
in  which  he  had  often  muttered  a  hurried  piayc 
before  plunging  in  amidol  ihf>  mad  luivoc  of  an'ln 
dian  bjttle-field,  confident  that  the  justice  of 
Heaven  would  never  permit  heatiienisli  Alghais 
to  triumph  over  Cliristian  British  gentlemen,  he 
noAf  believed  that,  in  the  darkest  hour  of  Mar} 
Marchmont's  life.  God's  arm  had  held  her  bacl 
from  the  drend  horror — the  unatonable  ofl'cnse — 
of  self-destruction. 

'1  thank  you  for  having  spoken  frankly  to  me,' 
he  said  to  Barbara  SImioons;  'I  believe  that  yoi 
have  ipoken  in  good  faith.  But  1  do  not  lliinl 
my  darling  is  forever  lost  to  me.  I  articipalf 
trouble  and  anxiety,  disappointment,  defeat,  fc 
a  time — for  t  lon|:  time,  perhaps;  but  I  know  thai 
I  shall  find  her  in  the  end.  The  business  of  mj 
life  henceforth  is  to  look  for  her.' 

Barbara's  dull  eyes  held  earnest  watch  upon 
the  young  man's  countenance  as  bespoke.  Anx- 
iety, and  evfu  fear,  were  in  that  gaze,  palpable 
to  those  who  knew  how  to  read  the  faint  indica- 
tions of  the  woman's  stolH  face.  ,      -- 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 

THK  PARAGRAPH  IN  THE  NEWSPAPER. 

Mr.  Morrison  brought  the  gig  and  pony  to  the 
western  porch  while  Captain  Arundel  was  talk- 
ing to  his  cousin's  servant,  and  presently  the  in- 
valid was  being  driven  across  the  flat  between  the 
Towers  and  the  high  road  to  Kemberling. 

Mary's  old  favorite,  Farmer  Pollard's  daugh- 
ter, came  out  of  a  low  rustic  shop  as  the  gij; 
drew  up  before  her  husband's  door.  This  good- 
natured,  tender- he.arled  Hester,  advanced  t( 
matronly  dignity  under  the  name  of  Mrs  .lobson, 
carried  a  baby  in  her  arms,  and  wore  a  white 
dimity  hood,  that  made  a  pent-house  over  her 
simple  rosy  fuce.  But  at  the  !»iglit  of  Captain 
Arundel  nearly  all  the  rosy  color  disappeared 
from  the  country  woman's  plump  cheeks,  and  she 
stared  aghast  at  the  unlooked-for  visitor,  almost 
ready  to  believe  that,  if  any  thing  so  substantial 
as  a  pony  and  gig  could  belong  lo  the  spiritual 
world,  it  was  the  pliantom  only  of  the  soldier  that 
she  looked  upon. 

'Oh,  Sir!  she  said;  'oh.  Captain  Arundel,  is  it 
really  you  f 

Rlward  alighted  before  Hester  could  recover 
from  the  surprise  occasioned  by  liis  appearance. 

'Yes,  Mrs.  Jobson,'  he  said.  'May  1  come  into 
your  house?     1  wish  to  speak  to  you.' 

l^ester  courtesied,  and  stood  siside  to  allow  her 
visitor  to  pass  her.  Her  manner  was  co'dly  re- 
spectful, and  she  hjoked  ut  ine  young  ofTK-et  with 
a  grave,  reproachful  fare,  which  was  strange  lo 
him.  She  ushered  her  guest  into  a  p  irlor  at  the 
back  of  the  shop — a  prim  apartment,  splendid 
]3 


with  varnished  mahogany,  shell  work-boxes- 
bought  during  Hesier's  hone}-moon  'rip  to  a 
Lincolnshire  watering  place — and  voluniin<<us 
achievements  in  t^e  way  of  crochet-work;  a  gor- 
geous and  Sahbatli-day  c  amber,  lookiig  iut'Ss 
a  stand  of  geraniums  into  a  garden  It  nt  u  as 
orderly  and  trimlj  kept  even  in  Ihis  dull  IS'ovem- 
!iei'  wewtlier. 

Mrs.  Jobson  drew  forwrrd  an  uneasy  cavy- 
chair,  covered  with  horse-hair,  and  veiled  *y  a 
irochct-wirk  repicsentation  of  a.p(,nLOc\  r"- 
jowered  among  roses.  She  oflire.J  tiisiuxuricts 
••at  to  Capitiin  Arundel,  who,  in  his  wc't';ne''s, 
V  as  well  content  to  sink  down  upon  lie  siippti/ 
(.ushions. 

'1  have  come  here  to  ask  you  to  help  m";  ir  >ry 
-earch  for  my  wife,  Ke.-ter,'  Kdward  Arundel 
■•aid,  in  a  scarcely  aiulitiji*  voice. 

It  is  not  given  to  !li«  hmvest  mind  to  le  i  Uc.  ly 
i.deptMident  and  defiant  of  the  body;  and  the  ,'»')'- 
lierwis  litginniig  to  feel  that  he  hai  >ciy  nec.:y 
uu  the  length  of  his  tftliHr,  and  must  t'Oon  ^ub- 
lit  himself  to  be  prostrated  by  shter  phjsiciii 
veakness. 

'Your  wife  !'  cried  Hester,  eagerly.  *0h,  Sir, 
s  that  true  ?' 

'Is  what  true  ?' 

'That  poor  Miss  Mary  was  your  lawful  wedded 
Aifer' 

'She  was,'  replied  Edward  Arundel,  sternly, 
•my  true  and- lawful  wife.  What  else  should  she 
iiavebeen,  Mrs.  Jobson  ?' 

The  farmer's  daughter  burst  into  tears. 

'Oh,  Sir,'  fche  said,  sobbing  violently  as  she 
spoke — Oh,  Sir,  the  things  that  \^as  said  against 
that  poor  dear  in  this  place  and  all  about  the 
Towers  !  The  things  that  was  said  !  It  makes  my 
heart  bleed  to  think  of  them;  it  makes  my  heart 
ready  lo  break  when  I  think  what  my  poor  swtct 
young  lady  must  have  suffered.  Aiid  it  set  me 
against  you.  Sir;  and  I  thought  you  was  a  bad 
and  cruel-hearted  man  !' 

'What  did  they  say  •''  cried  Edward;  'what  di<! 
they  dare  to  say  agamst  her  or  against  me  ?' 

'  They  said  that  you  had  enticed  her  away 
from  her  home,  Sir,  and  that — that — there  had 
been  no  marriage;  and  ihat  you'd  deserted  her 
afterward,  and  the  railway  accident  had  cotne 
upon  you  as  a  punishment  like;  and  that  Mrs. 
Marchmont  had  found  poor  Miss  Mary  all  alone 
at  a  country  inn,  and  had  brought  her  back  to  the 
Powers.' 

'  But  what  if  people  did  say  this?'  exclaimed 
Captain  Arundel.  '  You  could  haje  contradicted 
iheir  foul  slanders.  You  could  have  spoken  in 
defense  of  my  poor  helpless  girl.' 

'  M«,  Sir!' 

'  Yes.  You  must  have  heard  the  truth  from 
my  wife's  own  lips.' 

Hester  Jobson  burst  into  a  new  flood  of  tears 
as  Edward  Arundel  said  this. 

'  Oh  no,  Srr,'  she  sobbed;  '  that  was  the  most 
cruel  thing  of  all.  I  never  could  get  to  see  Miss 
Mary;  they  wouldn't  let  me  see  her.' 

'  Who  wouldn't  let  you  ?' 

'  Mrs.  Marchment  and  Mr.  Paul  Marchmont. 
I  was  laid  up,  Sir,  when  the  report  first  spread 
about  that  Miss  Mary  had  come  home.  Things 
was  kept  very  secret,  arid  it  was  said  thai  Mrs. 
Matchinont  was  dreadfully  cut  up  by  the  dis- 
Ktace  that  had  come  upon  her  step-daughter. 
Sly  baby  was  born  about  that  time.  Sir;  but  as 
soon  as  ever  I  could  get  about  I  went  up  to  the 
Towers,  in  the  hop«  of  •eeing  mj poor dearmisi 


93  JOHN  MARCHMONT'a  LEG  ACT. 

But  Mrs.  Simmons,  Mrs.  Marchmont's  own  maid,;  to  try  and  comfort  her;  but  Mi«s  Mary  had  al- 
told  me  that  Miss  Mary  was  ill,  very  ill,  and  that^  ways  been  very  reserved  to  all  the  servants,  and 
no  one  was  allowed  to  see  hei  except  those  tl;at<  Susan  didn't  dare  intrude  upon  her.  It  was  late 
waited  upon  her  and  that  she  was  used  lo.  And  '  that  evening  when  my  poor  young  lady  wss 
I  begged  and  prayed  that  I  might  be  allowed  to '  missed,  and  the  servants  sent  out  to  look  for 
see  her,  Sir,  with,  the  tears  in  my  e}es;  for  my?  her.' 

heart  bled  for  her,  poor  darling  dear,  when  1/  'And  you,  Hester — you  knew  my  wife  better 
thought  of  the  cruel  things  that  were  said  against  i  than  any  of  these  people — where  do  you  think 
her,  and  thought  that,  witli  all  her  riches  and  her^  she  went?' 

learning,  folks  could  dare  to  talk  of  her  as  they  j  Hester  Jobson  looked  piteously  at  the  ques- 
wouldn'tdare  to  talk  of  a  poor  man's  wife  like)  tioner.; 

me.  And  I  went  up  again  and  again,  Sir;  but?  'Oh,  Sir,'  she  cried;  «  O,  Captain  Arundel, 
it  was  no  good;  and,  the  last  time  1  went.  Mis.  >  don't  ask  me;  pray,  pray  don't  ask  me  !' 
Marchmont  came  out  into  the  hall  to  me,  and?  '  You  think  like  these  other  people — you  think 
told  me  that  I  was  inlru<ive  and  impertinent,  and  ?  that  she  went  away  to  destroy  herscf  ?' 
that  it  was  me,  and  such  as  me,  as  had  set  all?  'Oh,  Sir,  what  can  I  think,  what  can  I  think 
manner  of  scandal  a  tloat  about  her  step-daughter.  <  except  that.'*  She  was  last  seen  down  by  the 
But  1  went  anain.  Sir,  even  after  that,  and  I  saw  ?  water-side,  and  one  of  her  shoes  was  picked  up 
Mr.  Paul  Marchmont.  and  he  was  very  kind  to  ?  among  the  rushes*  and  lor  all  there's  been  such 
me,  and  frank  and  free-spoken — almost  like  you,  ?  a  search  made  after  her,  and  a  reward  oileced, 
Sir;  and  he  told  me  that  Mrs.  Marchmont  was^  and  advertisements  in  the  papers,  and  every  thing 
rather  stern  and  unforgiving  toward  the  pporidone  that  mortal  could  do  to  find  her,  and  no 
young  lady — he  spoke  very  kind  and  pitiful  of  S  news  of  her,  Sir — not  a  trace  to  tell  of  her  being 
poor  Miss  Mary — and  that  he  would  stand  my  Hiving;  not  a  creature  to  come  forward  and  speak 
friend,  and  he'd  contrive  that  I  should  see  my  ?  to  her  being  seen  by  them  after  that  day.  What 
poor  dear  as  soon  as  ever  she  picked  up  her  spirits?  can  I  think.  Sir,  what  can  1  think,  except—'^ 
a  bit,  and  was  more  fit  to  see  me;  and  1  was  to?  '  Except  that  she  threw  herself  into  the  river 
come  again  in  a  week's  time,  he  said.'  )  at  the  hack  of  Marchmont  Towers.' 

•  Well,  and  when  you  went' —  i      <  I've  tried  to  think  diHerent,  Sir;  I've  tried  to 

•  When  I  went,  Sir,'  sotibed  the  carpenter's^  hope  1  s-hould  see  the  poor  sweet  lamb  again;  but 
wife,  'it  was  the  8th  of  October,  and  MissMcan't,  I  can't.  I've  worn  mourning  fur  these 
Mary  had  run  awiy  upon  the  day  before,  and  ?  three  la>t  Sundays,  Sir;  for  I  seemed  to  feel  as 
every  body  at  the  Towers  was  being  sent  right  J  if  it  was  a  sin  and  o  disrespectfulness  toward  her 
and  left  to  look  U>r  her.  1  saw  Mis.  Marchmont  f  to  wear  colors,  ai.d  sit  in  the  church  where  I  have 
for  a  minuie  that  afternnoii;  and  she  wss  as  ?  seen  her  so  often,  looking  so  meek  and  beautiful, 
white  as  a  sheet,  and  all  of  a  tremble  from  head  <  Sunday  after  Sunday  ' 

to  foot,  and  she  walked  about  the  place  as  if  she '<  Edward  Arund<r  bowed  his  bead  upon  his 
was  nut  of  her  miiid  like.'  j  hands  and  wept   silently.     This  woman's  belief 

•  Guilt,'  thought  the  young  soldier;  '  guilt  of i  in  Mary's  deuth  afRicted  him  more  than  he  dared 
some  siirt.  God  only  knows  what  that  guilt  has  |  confess  to  himself.  He  had  defied  Olivia  and 
bet-n  '  I  I'au!  Marchmont,  as  enemies,  who  tried  to'forcc 

He  covered  his  face  with  his  hands,  and  wnited  >  a  false  conviction  upon  him:  but  he  could  neither 
to  hear  what  more.  Hester  Jobson  had  to  tell  him.  |  doubt  nordcfy  this  hunest.  warmhearted  crtalure, 
Thf-re  was  no  need  of  quesli<inirig,herf ;  no  reser-' who  wept  aloud  over  the  memory  of  his  wife's 
vation  or  prevariratio".  With  almost  as  tender  .sorrows.  He  could  not  doubt  her  sincerity;  but 
regret  as  he  himself  could  have  felt,  the  carMie  still  refused  to  accept  the  heljef  which  on 
pentfr's  wife  told  him  all  that  she  knew  of  the  j  every  side  was  pressed  upon  him.  Ha  still  re- 
sad  sicry  of  Mary  s  disappearance.  ?  fused  to  think  that  his  wife  was  dead. 

•  Nobody  took   much  notice  of  me,  Sir,  in  the  ^      'The  river  was  dragged  for  more  than  a  week,' 
confu-ion  of  the  place,'   Mrs    Jobson  continued;  ^  he   said,    presently,   'and   my    wife's   bofiy  was 
'  and  there  is  a  p:irlor-maid  at  the  Towers  call*  d  '/  never  found.'  ' 
Susan  Rose,  thiit  had  been  a  school-fellow  with?      Hester  Jobson  shook  lirr  head  mournfully. 

me  ten  years  before,  and  I  got  her  lo  tell  me  all?      'Thai's  a   poor  sign,  Sir,  she  answered;  'the 

about   it.  .  An^l  she   said    that    poor   dear    Miss  /  river's  full  of  ho/es.  I've  heard  say.     My  husband 

Mary  had  been  weak   and   ailing  ever  since  she  ?  had  a  fellow-'prentice  who  drowned   himself  jn 

had  recovered  from  the  brain-fever,  and  that  she)  that  river  seven    years   ago,  and  his  body   was 

had  shut  heiself  up  in  her  room,  and  had  seen  no  J  never  found.' 

one  except  Mrs.   Marchmont  and   Barbara  Sim;^     Edward  Arundel  rose  and  walked  toward  the 

mons;  but  on   the  sevinteenih  Mrs.  Marchmont^ door. 

sent  for  her,  asking  her  to  come  to  the  study.)      '  I  do  not  believe  that  my  wife  is  dead, 'he  cried. 

And  the  poor  young  lady  went;  and  then  Susan  ?  He  held  oUt   his  hand    to  the  carpenter's  wife. 

Rose  thinks  that  tliere   was  high  words  between  ?' (^od   bless  you,'  he    said.     'I  thaiik  you  from 

Mrs.   Marchmont  and  her  step-daughter,  for  as 'my  heart  for  your  tender  feeling  toward  my  lost 

Susan  was'crossing  the  hall,  this  poor  miss  came  '  girl.' 

out  of  the  study,  and  her  face  was  all  smothered  ?      He  went  out  to  the  gig,  in  which  Mr.  Morrison 

in  tears,  and  she  cried  out,  as  she  came  into  the 'waited   for  him,  rather  tired  of  his  morning's' 

hall,  *  I  can't  bear  it  any  longer.     My  life  is  too)  work. 

miserable;  my  fate  is  too  wretched  !'    And  then  ">     «  There  is  an  inn  a  little  way  further  along  th« 

she  ran  up  stairs,  and  Susan  Rose  followed  up  to  ■  street,  Morrison,'  Captain  Arundel  said.       I  stall 

her  room  and  listened  outside  the  door;  and  she'  stop  there.' 

heard  the  poor  dear  sobbing  and  crying  out  again  ?     The  man  stared  at  his  master. 

and  again,  'Oh  papa,  papa!    If  you  knew  what^     'And  not  go  back  to  Marchmont  Towers,  Mr. 

I  suffer!    O  papa,  papa,  papa!' — so  pitiful,  that f  Edward  .'' 

if  Susan  Rose  had  dared  slie  would  have  gone  in  \     '  No.' 


JOUN  MAKCHMOWT'S  LM^ACT.  89 

Edward  Arundel  had  held  nature  in  abeyance^  ton,  if  you  can.  But  I  warn  you  that,  if  you 
for  more  than  fonr-and-twenty  hours,  and  this  ^  keep  me  long  here,  I  shall  leave  this  place  either 
outraged  nature  now  took  her  revenge  by  flinging  j  a  corpse  or  a  madman.' 

the  youne;  man  pro-trate  and  powerle«s  upon  his ;  The  stirgeon,  drinking  tea  with  his  wife  and 
bed  at  the  simple  Kemberling  hostelry,  and  ho'ld-j^brothcr-in-law  half  an  hour  afterward,  related 
ing  him  prisoner  there  for  three  dreary  diiys;  the  conversation  that  had  taken  place  between 
three  miserable  days,'witli  long,  dark,  intermin-  himself  and  his  patient,  breaking  up  his  narra- 
able  evenings,  durmg  winch  the  invalid  had  no  f  tive  with  a  great  ma-y  '  1  saids'  and  'said  he's,' 
better  cmpliiyment  than  to  lie  brooding  over  bis  and  with  a  good  deal  of  rambling  commentary 
sorrows,    while    Mr.   Morrison    read    the    jT  nies  i"  upon  the  text. 

newspaper  ill  a  monotonous  and  dr-.ning  voice  for  ^  Lavinia  Weston  looked  at  her  brother  while 
his  sick  master's  entertainment.  I  the  surgeon  told  his  stoiy. 

How  tliat  helpless  and  (iro!»trate  prisoner, bound  <  *  He  is  very  desperate  about  his  wife,  then, 
hand  and  foot  in  the  stern  grasp  of  retaliative  I^  this  dashing  young  captain.''  Mr.  Marchmont 
Nature,  loathed  th^-  leading  articles,  thjf  foreign  <;  said,  presently. 

coriespondcricf^,  in  the  levj;ithan  journal!  H<iw  '  Awfil,' answered  the  surgeon;  'regular  aw- 
he  sickened  at  the  fury  English  of  Printing-House^  ful.  I  never  saw  any  IhuiK  like  it.  Really  i{ 
Square,  as  expounded  by  Mr.  Morrison!  The ^  was  enough  to  cut  a  man  up  to  hear  hini  go  on 
sound  of  the  valet's  voice  was  like  the  unbroken ';  so.  He  a-kid  me  all  .-oris  of  queslions  about 
flow  of  a  dull  river.  The  great  names  that  :  ihe  time  when  S' e  was  ill  jitid  1  ;itlendei)  upon 
surged  tip  every  novv  ar,d  then  U|)ot)  that  sullen;  her,  .ind  what  did  she  s..y  to  me,  and  iiid  she 
tide  of  oratory  maile  no  impression  upon  the  sick  ^  seem  very  unhappy,  ana  all  that  sort  of  t' ing. 
man's  mind.  What  was  it  to  him  if  the  ghiry  of^;  Upon  my  word,  jou  know,  Mr.  Paul  — of  course 
England  wns  in  danger,  the  freedom  of  a  mighty'  I'm  very  glad  to  think  of  your  cotnitig  into  the 
people  wavering  in  the  balance?  \Vhat  was  ii  fortune,  and  I'm  very  much  obligttd  to  ymi  fur 
to  him  if  faminc-Btiicken  Ireland  wer>' perishing, :  the  kind  promises  you've  made  to  me  and  La- 
and  the  far  away  Indian  possessions  menaced  oy '  vinia;  but  I  almc  st  lilt  as  il  I  CiHild  have  wished 
contumacious  and  treacherous  Sikhs.'  What  <  the  [)oor  young  lady  hadn't  diown»-d  heiself.' 
was  it  to  him  if  the  heaven*  were  shriveled  like^  Mrs.  \Veston  siirugjjed  her  shoulders,  and 
a   blazing' scroll,  anti   the   earth  reeling   on   its  ;  looked  at  her  hrother.  > 

shaken   foundations?     What  had   he  to  do  withl;      '/wfteri/f; .'' she  muiiered. 

any  catastrophe  except  that  which  had  fallen  She  was  accustomed  to  talk  to  her  brother 
upon  his  uiniceiit  young  wife?  j  very  Ireely,  in  rather  school-girl  French   belore 

•  Oh  my  broken  trust !' he  mulic  led  same  times, J  Iter  husband,  to  whom  that  languai^e  was  as  the 
to  the  alarm  of  the  confidential  servant;  '  Oh  my  J  most  lecundite  of  tontrqes,  and  vvtio  heartily  ad- 
broken  trust!'  jniited  her  lor  superior  kiiowl.  dge 

But  during  the  three  days  in  which  Captain^      He  sat  sianng  at  her  now,  and  eating  bread- 
Arundel   lay  in  the   best  d'amber  at  the  B  ack  jand-bulter  with  a  simple  relisli,  which   in  itstlf 
Bull — the  chief  inn   of  Kemhtrling.  and  a  veryiwas  enough   to  mark   him  out  as  a  man  to  be 
splendid  place  of  public  entertainment  long  ago,  ^trampled  upon, 
^♦hen  all  the  northward-bound  coaclies  had  lassed  ' 

through  that  quiet  Lincolnstiire  village — he  was  (  On  the  fourth  day  after  his  interview  with 
not  without  a  medica.  attendant  to  give  him  sone  j  Hester,  Edvvard  Arundel  was  strong  enough  to 
feeble  help  in  the  way  of  drugs  and  doctor's  stuti'  ;leavc  his  chamber  at  the  black  bull, 
in  the  battle  which  he  wa^  figliting  with  oflended  >  '  I  s'lall  go  to  L';ndon  by  to-night's  mail,  Mor- 
Nature.  I  don't  know  but  what  the  help,  how-j  rison,'  be  said  to  his  servant;  '  but  before  I  leave 
ever  well  intended,  reay  hare  gone  rather  to  Lincolnshire,  I  must  pay  another  visit  to  March- 
strengtheu  the  hand  of  the  enemy;  for  in  those ')mont  Towers.  You  can  stop  here,  and  pack  my 
days — the   year  '4ti  is   very  long   ago  when   we  ;  portmanteau  while  1  go.' 

take  the  measure  of  time  by  science — country  <  A  rumbling  old  fly — looked  upon  as  ii  splen- 
praclitoners  were  apt  to  place  themselves  upon  (did  equipage  by  the  inhabitants  of  Kemberling 
the  side  of  the  di.sease  rather  than  of  the  patient,  J— *was  furnished  for  Captain  Arundel's  accom- 
and  to  assist  grim  Death  in  ph  siege,  by  lending ;  modation  by  the  proprietor  of  the  B  ack  Bull; 
the  professional  aid  of  purgatives  and  phlebotomy. 'and  once  more  the  soldier  approached  that  ill- 
Ou  this  principle  Mr.  George  Weston,  the  sur- ;  omened  dwelling-place  which  had  been  the  home 
geon  of  Kcmberling,  and  the  submissive  and  well-  'of  his  wife. 

tutored  husband  of  Paul  Marthmbnt's  sister,;  He  was  ushered  without  any  delay  to  the  study 
would  fain  have  set  to  work  with  t,he  prostrate  ;  in  which  Olivia  spent  the  greater  part  of  her 
soldier,  on  the  plea  that  the  patient's  skin  was  ;time._ 

hot  and  dry,  and  his  white  lips  parched  with  fever. '      The  dusky   afternoon   was  already  closing  in. 
But  Captain    Anmdel    protested    vehemently  ^  A  low  fire  burned  in  the  old-fashioned  grate,  and 
against  any  such  treatment.  ;one  lighted  wax  candle  stood  upon  an  open  davea- 

'  You  shall  not  take  an  ounce  of  blood  out  of  J  port,  al'which  the  widow  sat  amidst  a  confusion 
my  veins,' he  said,  '  or  give  me  one  drop  of  medi-;,  of  torn  papers,  cast  upon  the  ground  about  her. 
cine  that  will  weaken  me.  What  1  want  is  ^  The  open  drawers  of  the  davenport,  the  lit- 
strenglh;  strengtlT  to  get  up  and  leave  this  intol-^tered  scraps  of  paper  and  looseiy-tied  documents, 
crable  room,  and  go  about  the  business  thai  1  have  J  thrust,  without  any  show  of  order,  into  the  different 
to  do.  As  to  fever,'  he  a^ded,  scornfully,  *  as  ;; compartments  of  the  desk,  bore  testimony  to  that 
long  as  I  have  to  lie  here  and  am  hindered  from  Estate  of  mental  distraction  which  had  been  com- 

going  about  the  business  of  my  life,  ev^ry  dropimon  to  C>livia  Marchmont  for  some  time  past. 

of  my  blood  will  boil  willi  a  fever  that  ^^11  the;  She  herself,  the  gloomy  tenant  of  the  Towori, 
drugs  "in  Apothecaries' Hall  would  have  no  power ;  sat  with  her  elbow  resting  on  her  desk,  lookins 
to  subdue.  Give  me  something  to  strengthen ,' hopelessly  and  absently  at  the  confuiion  before 
roe.    Patcb  me  up  vomebow  or  other,  Mr.  Wes- J  her. 


lOO 


JOHN   MAKCUMOiNT'S  LtGACY. 


'I  am  very  tired,'  slie  said  with  a  sigh,  as  she  ]     Edward   Arundel    paused  for   a  little   while, 
motioned,her  cousin  to  a  chair.    «I  have  been  try- :  brooding  over  this  strange  reply  to  his  appeal, 
ing  to  sort  my  papers,  and  to  look  for  bills  that    Could  he  disbelieve  his  cousin  ? 
have  to  be  paid,  and  receipts.     They  come  to  me        It  is  common  to  some  people  to  make  forcible 
about  every  thing.  I  am  very  tired.'  Her  .manner  ]  aitil  impious  asseverations  of  an  untruth  shame- 
was  changed  from  that  stern  defiance  with  which' S  lessly,  in  the  very  face  of  an  insulted  Heaven, 
she  had  last  confronted  her  kinsman  to  an  air  of    But  Olivia  Marchmont  was  a  woman  who,  in  the      . 
almost  piteous  feebleness.     She  rested  her  head  \  very  darkest  hour  of  her  despair,  knew  no  waver- 
on  her  hand,  repeating,  in  a  low  voice,     'Yes,  1  ':  ipgfrom  her  faith  in  the  God  she  had  offended, 
am  very  tired.'  'I  can  not  refuse  to  believe  you,  Olivia,' Cap- 

Edward  Arundel  looked  earnestly  at  her  faded  ;  tain  Arundel  said,  presently.  '1  do  believe  in  your 
face,  so  faded  from  that  which  he  remembered  it  i  solemn  protestations,  and  I  no  longer  look  for 
in  its  proud  young  beauty,  that,  in  spite  of  his  \  helpi'rom  you  in  my  search  for  my  lost  love.  I 
doubt  of  this  woman,  he  could  scarcely  refrain  ]  absolve  you  from  all  suspicion  of  being  aware  of 
from  some  touch  of  pity  for  her.  her  fate  after  she  left  this  house.      But  so  long  as 

'You  are  ill,  Olivia,'  he  said.  .  ■  she  remained  beneath  this  roof  she  was  in  your 

•Yes,  I  am  ill;  i  am  worn  out;  I  am  tired  of  my  ;  care,  and  I  hold  you  responsible  for  the  ills  that 
life.  Why  does  not  God  have  pity  upon  me,  and  may  have  then  befallen  her.  You,  Olivia,  must 
take  the  bitter  burden  away  ';  I  have  carried  it  too  ;  have  had  some  hand  In  driving  that  unhappy  girl 
long.'  She  said  this  not  so  much  to  her  cousin  as  to  '  away  from  her  home.' 

herself.  She  was  like  Job  in  his  despair,  and  The  widow  had  resumed  her  seat  by  the  open 
cried  aloud  to  the  Supreme  Himself  in  a  gloomy  ;  davenport.  She  sat  with  her  head  bent,  her  brow^ 
protest  against  her  anguish.  !  contracted,   her   mouth  fixed  and  rigid,  her  left 

'Olivia,' said  Edward  Arundel  very  earnestly,  ;  hand  trifling  absently  with  the  scattered  papers 
'what  is  it  that  makes  you  unliappy  ?     Is  the  bur- !  before  her. 

den  that  you  carry  a  burden  on  your  conscience?  I  'You  accused  me  of  this  once  before,  when 
IstheblacKstiadowupon  your  lil'ea  guilty  secret?  \  Mary  Marchmont  left- this  house,'  she  said,  sui- 
Is  the  cause   of  your  unhappiness  that  which  I  j  lenly. 

suspect  it  to  be  ?  Is  it  that,  in  some  hour  of  pas- ,  'And  you  werfe  guilty  then,' answered  Edward, 
sion,  you  consented  to  league  yourself  with  l^aul  'I  can  not  hold  myself  answerable  for  the  ac- 
Marthmont  against  my  poor  innocent  girl?  For  \  tions  of  others.  Mary  Marchmont  left  this  time 
pity's  Sake,  speak,  and  undo  what  you  have  done.  )  as  she  left  before,  of  her  own  free  will.' 
You  can  not  have  been  guilty  of  a  crime.  There  '  'Driven  away  by  your  cruel  word's.' 
has  been  some  foul  play,  some  conspiracy,  some  j  'She  must  have  been  very  weak,'  answered 
suppression;  and  my  darling  has  been  lured  away  ;  Olivia,  wi:h  a  sneer,  'if  a  few  har^h  words  were 
by  the  machinations  of  this  man.  But  h«  could  I  enough  to  drive  her  away  from  her  own  house.' 
not  have  gut  htrinlo  his  po'Vtr  without  yourhelp-  !  'You  deny,  then,  that  you  were  guilty  of 
You  hated  her — .Heaven  alone  knows  for  what )  causing  this  poor  deluded  child's  flight  from  this 
reaS'jn — and  hi  an  evil  hour  you  helped  him,  and  |  douse?' 

now  you  are  sorry  for  what  yoM  have  done.  But  J  Olivia  Marchmont  sat  for  some  moments  in 
jl  is  not  too  late,  Olivia;  Olivia,  it  i^  surely  not '  moody  silence;  then  Suddenly  raising  her  head, 
too  late  -Spf.ak,  speak,  woinnn,  and  undo  what  she  looked  her  cousin  full  in  iheTace. 
you  have  done.  A-.  you  hope  for  mercy  and  for-  \  'I  do,'  she  exclaimed;  'if  any  one  except  hcr- 
giveness  from  Gcd  undo  what,  you  have  done.  I  j  self  is  guilty  of  an  act  which  was  her  own,  1  am 
will  caact  no  aiouoment  fiom  you.    Paul  March-    not  that  person.' 

JD^- I  ,  t.us  snio  t.i  tra'twr,  this  Iraiik  man  of  the  «I  understand,'  said  Edward  Arundel;  'it  wa^ 
-,7orldf  who  de'.i'  d  mo  with  a  smile — he  only  shall  j  Paul  Marclimont's  hand  that  drove  her  out  upon 
be  called  upon  to  aiisv.'er  for  the  sin  done 'against  i  (he  dreary  world.  .It  was  Paul  Marchmont's, 
m.y  darlifg.  Speak,  Ohvia,  for  pity's  s);e,' cried  ';  b:  ain  that  plotted  agair^st  her.  You  v^ere  only  a 
tt  0  young  man,  casun-  himself  upon  h.;.  knees  i«t ,  uiinor  instruniiat,  a  willing  tool,  in  the  hands  of 
his  cousin's  fcot.  'Vou  arc  of  my  own  blood;  jou  ;  a  subtle  vtllaiii.  But  he  shall  answer;  he  shall 
Ti.Ui(t  have  some  spa rlt  (f  regard  for   me;  have  )  answer !' 

c  ;:iipassion  upon  me,  tin  i,  or  i.ave  compassion)  The  soldier  spoke' the  last  words  between  his 
up(  n  your  own  guilt)  'uul,  w.hich  must,  perish  |  clenched  teeth.  Then,  with  his  chin  upon  his 
e.ti'la.tii  gly  if  you  withhokl  the  truth.  Have 'breast,  he  sat  lliinking  over  what  he  had  just 
pity,  Olivia,  and  speak  I'  1  hearfr. 

The  v/idovv  had  nsea  to  her  frtctjrftcoilingfrom  !  'How  wa's  it?' he  muttered;  'how  was  it?  He 
the  soldier  !is  l.e  k  eit  nefore  her,  and  looking  &i  \  is  too  consummate  a  villain  toiTse  violence.  His 
him  with  an  awi'ul  light  in  the  ejes  that  alone  j  manner  tuc  other  lorning  told  ne  ilut  the  law 
ga''e  liglit  to  her  corpsc-bke  f.ice.     .'  '  j  wtis  on  his  side.     He  had  done  nothing  to  put  him- 

SudJtuily  ^h°>  fl  .ng  her  a.  ins  up  abovr?  herhead,;  self  into  my  ^lower,  and  he  defied  ^e.  How  was 
str  ■■;hiRg  her   wasieJ.  haims  toivurd  the  cfMiin^. ;  it,  then  ?    By  wo;it  means  did  he  drive  my  darling 

'By  the  God  who  has  re'iounced  and  aCandoned  ;  to  her  despairing  flight?' 
ino,'.-*he  ciied,  'I  have  no  more  knoivledge  than  j  AsCap  am  Arundel  sat  thinking  of  Ihfse  things, 
yiMi.  iiive  of  Mary  Ma'chmont's  ITite.  From  the)  his  cousin's  idle  fingers  still  trifled  with  the  papers 
hiu  in  which  she  left  this  house,  upon  the  17th  on  the  desk;  while,  with  her  chin  resting  on  her 
oi  October,  until  ttiis  present  moment.  1  have!  other  hand,  and  hi-reyes  fixed  upon  the  wall  be- 
neither  seen  her  nor  heard  of  her.  If  J  have  lied  ;  fore  her,  she  stared  blankly  at  the  reflection  of  the 
lo  you,  Edward  Arundel,'  she  added,  dropping  ^  flame  of  the  candle  on  the  polished  oaken  panel, 
her  extended  arms,  and  turning  quietly  to  lierj  Her  idle  fihg'-rs,  following  no  design,  strayed  here 
cousin — 'if  I  have  lied  to  you  in  saying  this,  may  {  and  there  among  the  scattered  papers,  until  a  few 
the  tortures  which  I  suffer  be  doubled  to  me — if;  that  lay  nearest  the  edge  of  the  oesk  slid  off  the 
in  the  infinite  of  suffering  there  is  any  anguish  i  smooth  morocco,  and  fluttered  to  the  ground, 
worso  than  that  I  now  endure.'  ;     Edward  Arundel,  as  absent-minded  as  his  cousin, 


JOHN  MARCHMOJVT'S  LEGACT.  lUl 

stooped  involuntarily  to  pick  up  the  papers.  The  newspaper.  That  paragraph  Was  the  key  to  the 
uppermost  of  those  that  had  fallen  was  a  slip  cut  sad  mystery  of  Mary  Arundel's  disappearance, 
from  a  country  newspaper,  to  which  was  pinned  Her  husbai.d  could  understand  now  why  she  ran 
an  open  letter, a  few  lines  only.  The  parujiraph  away,  why  she  <iespaired;  and  how,  in  that  des- 
in  the  newspaper  slip  was  marked  by  double  ink  ;  peralion  and  despair,  she  might  have  hastily  ended 
lines,  drawn  round  it  by  a  neat  penman.     Again,    lier  short  liic. 

almost  involuntarily,  Edward  Arundel  looked  at  It  was  witli  allered  feelins;s,  therefore,  that  he 
this  marked  paragraph.     It  was  very  bfief  :  <  went  forth  to  look  for  her.  He  was  no  lohger  pas- 

sionate and  impatient,  for  he  no  longer  believed 
'We  ri'gret  to  be  called  upon  to  stale  that  an-  that  Ins  youn^  wife  lived  to  yearn  for  his  coming, 
other  of  the  sufferers  in  the  accident  which  oc-  and  to  sutler  for  the  want  of  his  protection;  he  no 
cnrred  last  August  on  the  Southwestern  Railway  longer  thought  of  her  asa  lonely  and  helpless  wan- 
has  expired  from  injuries  received  upon  tiiat  oc-  derm*  driven  from  her  rightful  home,  and  in  her 
e.asion.  Captain  Arundel,  of  the  H.  E.  I.  C  S.,  childish  ignorance  straying  farther  and  farther 
died  on  Friday  night  at  Dangerficld  Park,  Devon,  away  irom  hini  who  had  the  right  to  succor  and  to 
the  seat  of  his  el'dcr  brother. '  comfort  4icr.      No;  he  thought  of  her  now  witji 

sullen  despafr  at  his  heart;  he  thought  of  her  now 

Tlie    letter   was   almost  as   brief  as  the  para-    in   utter   hopelessness;  he  thought  of  her  with  a 

graph  :  bitter  and  agonizing  regret,  that  was  almost  too 

,     terrihle  for  endurance. 
'ivLMBF.Ri.iNi;,   Ocivhrr    17.  But  triis  grief  was  not  the  only  feeling  that  held 

'My  Dear  Mrs.  Marcumont, — The  inclosed  possession  of  the  young  soldier's  breast.  Stronger 
has  just  come  to  hand.  Let  us  hope  it  is  not  true,  even  than  his  sorrow  was  his  eager  yearning  for 
JJut,  in  case  of  the  Worst,  it  should  be  shown  to '  vengeance,  his  savage  desire  for  i-etaliali(Ui. 
Miss  Marchmoiit  iiumedialelij.  Better  that  ^e  '  'I  look  upon  Paul  Marchmont  as  the  murderer 
should  hear  the  news  frpm  you  than  from  a  stran-  of  my  wife, 'ho  said  to  Olivia,  on  that  November 
ger.  Yours  smPerely,  .  evenmg  on   whijch  lie  saw  the  paragraph  in  the 

'Paul  Marchmont.'  newspaper;'!  lookupon  that  man  as  the  deliberate 
destroyer  of  a  helpless  girl*  and  he  shall  answer 
'1  understand  every  thing  now,'  said  Edward  lo  me  lor  her  liTe.  He  shall  answer  to  me  for 
Arundel,  laying  these  two  papers  before  his  cou-'  every  pang  she  sufiTered,  for  every  tear  she  shed, 
sin;  'it  was  with  this  printed  lie  that  you  and  Paul '  God  have  mercy  upon  her  poor  erring  soul,  and 
Marchmont  drove  my  wife  lode><pair— perhaps  to  helji  me  to  my  vengeance  upon  lier  destroyer.' 
death;  My  darling,  my  darling.'  cried  the  young  Hr,  lilted  his  eyes  to  heaven  as  he  spoke,  and  a 
man,  in  a  burst  of  uncontrollable  agony,  'I  re-  solemn  shadow  overspread  his  pale  lace,  like  a 
fused  to  believe  that  yau  were  dead;  1  refused  to  dark  cloud  up^n  a  winter  landscape, 
believe  tiiat  yoii  were  lost  lo  mc.  1  can  believe  it  1  have  said  that  Edward  Arundel  no  longer 
now;  I  can  believe  it  now  I'  i  felt  a  frantic  impatjcnce  to  discover  his  wife's 

r  fa'e'.     The  sorrowful   convi<?(ion    which    at  last 

_  >  hud  forced  itself  upon   him   left  no  room  ft.r  iiu- 

;  patience.     'J'iie  pale  face  he  had  loved  was  lying 

*  hiddin  somewhere  beneath  those  dismal  waters. 

CHAPTER  XXV.  ;  He  had  no  doubt  of  that.     There  was  no  nee.l  of 

^    ,  'anv  other  soM;lion   to  the  mystery  of  Ins  wife's 

EDWARD    ARUXDEL   S    DESPAIR.  '    ,-  „  "'I      »  .    I    ^U     1         k     j     .  \     r 

disappearance,      i  hat  which   he  had  lo  seek  for 

Ve»;  Edward  .\rundel  could  believe  the  worst  ■  vva"  the  evideece  of  Paul  Marchmont's  guilt, 
now.  He  could  hcli.ve  now,  that  his  young  wile.  The  out-poken  young  soldier,  wtiosc  nature 
ijii  hearing  tidings  of  his  dralh,  had  rushed  iikhII)  ;  was  as  transparent  us  the  stainless  soul  oS  a  child, 
lo  hero.vn  destruction;  too  <iesv>iaie,  too  utierly  !  h^'l  toent'T  inio  the  lists  with  a  man  who  was  so 
unfriended  and  miserable,  to  live  under  the  bi.r- '  dilUreit  lo  himsell.  that  it  w.is  almost  dilficiili  to 
den  of  her  sorrows.  ybeijeve  t' at  the  two  individuals  belongtd  to  the 

Mary  had  talked  lo  her  Iceland  in  the  :  appy,  .-aiiiC  species, 
loving  onlideni^c  of  her  bricht  ht.nt  y-moon:  ii.e  '.  Captain  Arundel  went  back  to  Lr,ndon,and  bc- 
lud  talked  to  him  of  her  father'.",  deuth,  and  the  look  himself  forthwiih  to  llie  (.(licp.  of  Missis, 
horrible  grief  she  had  felt;  the  hcarl-sichness,  the  ;  PaiilellP,  I'aiilettc,  and  Malihiwson.  He  had 
eager  yearning  lo  be  earned  to  the  oaine  grave,  the  idea,  common  to  many  of  his  class,  ihat  all 
rest  in  the  sa  ue  silent  sleep.  ;  law jcrs,  whate-cr  claii.is  they  might  have  to  re- 

'llbin".c  I  tried  to  throw  my.sclf  iVoni  tlie  win-   speeiahilily,  were   in   a  mannei   past-mastLrs  in 
dow  upon  the  nigl;t  before  papa's  funeral,'  she, every   villainous  art,  and,  as   such,  ihe  proper 
had  said;  'but   J    fai.ited  away.     1  know  it  v/as    people  to  deal  with  a  Villain, 
very  wicked  of  me.   Imt  I  was  mad.    IMy  wretch-        'l.ichard   FavjIelU.    will  be  able   to  help  me,' 
tdiiess  hail  driven  ine  mad  '  thought  the  jung  man.     'Uichard    Paulette  saw 

Ht>  remcinhered  this.     Might  not  this  gir',  this  ^  through  Paul  iMarchmont,  1  oaresay.' 
helpless  child,  in  the  first  desperation  of  lier  gri*-!',.     But   Uichard    Patllelte  hail   very    little  to  say 
have   hurri^l   down  to  Ihat  dismal  river  to  hide  ;  about  the  matter.     Ho  had  known  Edward  Arun- 
her  sorrows  forever   under  Its  slow  and  murky    dcl's  I'ather,  bnd  he  had  known  the  young  soldier 
tide.''  from   his  early  boyhooil,  and   he  SLcmed  deepiv 

Henceforward  it  was  with  a  new  feeling  that  '■  grifcved  to  witness  hi'*  clier  I's  distress:  but  he  had 
Edward  Arundel  looked  for  his  missiig  w^fe.  The,  nothing  to  say  against  Ptiiil  Marchmont. 
joung  and  hopeful  spirit  which  had  wrestled  :i  1  can  not  see  what  right  you  have  lo  suspect 
against  conviction,  which  had  slutibornly  pre- '  Mr.  Marchmont  of  any  gniltj  share  in  your 
served  its  own  sanguine  fancies  against  the  gloomy  J  wife's  disappearance,' he  said.  'Do  upt  think  I 
forebodings  of  others,  had  broken  down  before  j  defend  him  because  he  is  our  client.  You  know 
the  CTidcDce  of  that  false  paragraph  in  the  country  { that  wc  arc  rich  enough  and  honorable  enoug;h  to 


■♦••♦— 


lusi 


JUll.N  MAKCHMONT'S  LEGACY. 


refuse  the  business  of  any  inun  whom  we  thought 
a  villain.  When  I  wag  in  Lincolnshire,  Mr. 
Marcnmidit  did  every  thing  that  a  mm  could  do 
to  t'^slify  hs  anxiety  to  find  his  cousin.' 

*C>h.  yes,'  Edward  Aniiulel  answered,  bitterly ; 
'that  II  only  consistent  with  tlie  man's  diabolical 
artifice;  ttiat  was  a  part  of  his  scheme.  He 
wished  to  testify  that  anxiety,  and  he  wanted 
jou  as  a  witness  to  his  conscientious  search  after 
my — poor — lost  girl.'  His  voice  !ind  maniier 
changed  for  a  moment  as  he  spoke  of  Mary. 

Richard  Paulette  shook  his  head. 

'Prejudice,  prejudice,  my  dear  Arundel,'  lie 
said;  'this  is  ail  prejudice  upon  your  part,  1  as- 
sure )ou.  Mr.  Marchmont  hf.haved  with  perfect 
honesty  andcandor.  '  1  won't  tell  you  ti.at  I'm 
sorry  to  inherit  this  fortune,'  he  said,  'because  if 
I  did  you  wouldn't  believe  me — what  mm  in  his 
senses  cuuld  beliere  that  a  poor  devil  of  a  land- 
scape-paiiiter  would  rej^nt  coming  into  eleven 
thousand  a  year?- but  I  am  verysoir.y  fur  thi» 
poor  little  sin's  iinhaj>py  faie."  And  I  believe,' 
added  Mr.  Fau'etie/ decisively,  'that  the  man 
was  heartily  sorry.' 

Edw.ird  Arui.del  groaned  aloud. 

'O  God  !  this  is  too  terrible,'  he  muttered. 
'Ev  ry  body  wiM  believe  in  this  man  ratber'than 
in  mtt.  How  am  1  lo  tie  avenged  upon  the  wretch 
who  caused  m\  dc^rlftig's  death  .'' 

IJe  talked  fur  a  1  nij;  tune  lo  the  lawyer,  but 
with  no  rli^uU.  RicliHrd  Paulette  set  do  <n  the 
young  man's  haired  of  Piul  Marchmont  as  a 
iKiuial  consequence  of  his  grief  for  Mary's 
death. 

*1  can't  Tfonder  that  you  are  prejudiced  ae;ainsl 
Mr.  Marchinont,' he  said; 'It's  natural,  it's  only 
natural;  but,  Oelieve  me,  you  are  wrong.  No- 
thing could  be  mure  straightforwarl,  and  even 
dericate,  than  his  conduct.  He  refust-s  to  take 
pos-esiioH  of  the  estate,  or  lo  touch  a  farthing  of 
the  rents.  "No,"  he  said,  when  I  suggested  to 
him  that  he  had  a  right,to  enter  in  possession — ' 
"no;  we  will  not  shut  ihe  doar  against  hope.  My 
cousin  may  be  hiding  herself  somewhere;  she 
may  return  by-and-by.  Let  us  wait  a  twelve- 
month. If,  at  the  end  of  that  time  she  dues  not 
return,  and  if  in  tkc  interim  we  receive  no  tidings 
from  hcf ,  no  evidence  of  hsr  existence,  we  may 
reswJiiobly  conclude  that  she  is  dead;  and  J  may 
fiiiriy  consider  myself  the  .  righlTul  owner  of 
Mtrchm  int  Towers,  in  the  mean  time,  you  will 
ici  as  if  you  were  acting  as  Mary  Marchmont's 
a^jenl,  hoidiog  all  moneys  as  in  trust  for  her,  but 
to  De  deliiercd  up  to  me  at  the  expiration  of  a 
year  iro.u  the  day  on  which  she  disappeared."  J 
do  not  ihink  any  thing  could  be  moi«  straightfor- 
ward ll.au  that,'  added  Richard  Paulette,  in  con- 
clusion. 

'No,'  Edward  answered,  with  a  sigh;  'it  seems 
Tcrj  gtraighforward.  But  the  man  who  could 
itnike  at  a  helpless  girl  by  means  of  a  lying  para- 
graph in  a  newspaper — ' 

'Mr.  Marchmont  may  have  believed  in  that 
paragraph.' 

JCdward  Arundel  arose  with  "a  gesture  of  im- 
patience. 

'I  came  to  you  for  help,  Mr.  Paulette, 'he  said; 
'but  I  see  you  don't  mean  to  help  me.  Good- 
day.' 

He  left  the  ofijce  before  the  lawyer  could  re- 
monstrate with  him.  He  walked  away,  with 
passionat*  anger  against  all  the  world  raging  in 
his  breast. 

•Why,  what  a  smooth -epoken,  false 'tongaed 


world  it  is!'  he  thought.  'Let  a  man  succeed  in 
the  vilest  scheme,  and  ;to  living  creature  will 
care  to  a>k  by  what  foul  means  he  may  have  won 
his  success.  What  weapons  can  I  use  against 
tins  Paul  Marchmont.  who  twists  trutji  and  hon- 
esty to  his  own  ends,  and  ma^ks  his  basest  treach- 
e»y  under  an  appearance  o(  candor.'' 

From  Lincoln's  Inn  Fields  Captain  Arundel 
drove  over  Waterloo  Bridge  to  Oakley  Street. 
He  went  to  Mrs.  Pimiiernel's  establishment,  with- 
out ariy  hope  of  the  glad  surpri^e  that  had  met 
hifn  there  a  few  months  before.  He  believed 
implicitly  that  his  wile  was  dead,  and  wherever 
he  went  in  search  of  her  he  went  in  utter  hope- 
lessness, only  prompted  by  the  desire  to  leave  no 
part  of  his  duty  undone. 

The  honest-hearted  dealer  in  cast-nfl  apparel 
wept  bitterly  when  she  heard  how  sadly  Ihe  Cap- 
Iain's  honey-moon  had  ended.  She  would  hare 
been  content  lo  detain  the  young  soldier  all  day 
while  she  bemoaned  the  misfortunes  that  had 
(rorne  upon  him;  and  now  for  the  first  time  Ed- 
ward hcaid  of  dismal  forebodings,  and  h'-rnble 
dreams,  and  unaccounti'de  presentiments  ol  evil, 
w»ilh  which  this  honest  woman  had  been  afflicted 
on  and  before  his  wedding-day,  ai  d  of  whicti  she 
had  made  special  m*  ntion  at  the  time  to  divers 
friends  and  acquaiiilance. 

'J  never  ?liail  forget  how  shivery-like  I  felt  as 
the  cab  drove  off,  with  that  [loor  dear  alookin' 
and  siniiin'  at  me  out  of  the  winilow.  1  says  to 
.Vlrs.  Poison,  as  her  liusband  is  in  the  slioe- 
makin' line  two  doors  further  down-^-l  says, '•! 
do  liope  (Japting  Harungdell  s  lady  will  get  safe 
to  the  end  of  her  journey."  1  felt  the  cold- 
shivers  a-creepin'  up  my  back  just  exjnckly  like 
I  did  a  fortnight  before  my  pure  Jane  died,  and  [ 
couldn't  but  think  as  sumethink  sarious  was  goin' 
to  happen.' 

Fiom  London  Captain  Arundel  went  to  Win- 
chester, much  to  the  di-giisi  of  his  valet,  who 
was  accustomed  to  a  luxuriously  idle  life  at  Dan- 
gerfield  Park,  a»d  who  did  not  by  any  means 
relish  this  desultory  •wandering  froni  place  to 
place.  Perhaps  tticre  was  some  faint  ray  of  hope 
in  the  young  man's  mind  as  he  drew  near  to  that 
little  village-inn  beneath  whose  shelter  he  had 
been  so  happy  with  his  childish  bride.  If  she 
had  not  committed  suicide;  if  she  had  indeed 
wandered  away,  to  try  and  bear  her  sorrows  in 
gentle  Christiaiy  resignation;  if  she  had  sought » 
some  retreat  where  she  migtit  he  safe  from  her 
tormentors — would  not  every  instinct  of  her  lov- 
ing heart  have  led  her  here? — here,  amidst  these 
low  meadows  and  winding  streams,  guarded  and 
surrounded  by  the  plea>-ant  shelter  of  grassy  hill- 
tops, crowned  by  waving  trees  ? — here,  where  she  • 
had  heiiu  so  happy  with  the  husband  of  her 
choice .' 

But,  alas,  that  newly  born  kope,  which  had 
made  the  soldier's  heart  beat  and  his  cheek 
Hush,  was  as  delusive  as  many  other  hopes  that 
lure  men  and  women  onward  in  their  weary 
wanderings  upon  this  earth.  The  landlord  of 
the  White  Hart  Inn  answered  Edward  Arundel's 
question  with  stolid  indifference. 

No;  the  young  lady  had  gone  away  with  her 
Ma,  and  a  gentleman  who  came  with  her  Ma.  • 
She  had  cried  a  deal,  poor  thing,  and  had  seemed 
very  much  cut  up.  (It  was  from  the  chamber- 
maid Edward  heard  this.)  But  her  Ma  and  the 
gentleman  had  seemed  in  a  great  hurry  to  take 
her  away.  The  gentleman  said  that  a  village-ina 
wasn't  tbe  place  for  her,  and  he  said  he  was  very 


JOriiV  MARCHMOXT'S  LEGACY.  . 


108 


much  shocked  to  find  her  there;  and  he  had  a  fly  ',  The  brother  »nd  ?ister  conversed  in  subdued  mu»- 
grot,  and  took  the  two  ladies  away  in  it  to  the-  murs  as  they  stood  close  together  before  the  ex- 
George,  at  Winchester,  and  they  were  to  go  piling  fire,  and  the  fares  of  both  were  very  grare, 
from  there  to  London  ;  and   the  young   lady  was  \  almost  appreiieiisive. 

crying  when  she  -went  away,  and  was  as  pale  as  \  'He  must  be  terribly  in  earnest,'  Paul  March- 
death,  poor  dear.  ,  mont  said;  'or  he  would  never  have  sacrificed  his 

This  was  all  that  Captain   Arundel   gained  hyjpoBiiion.     He    has    planted   himself    here,   close 
his  journey  to  Milldale.    He  went  across  country  j  upon   us,  with   a   determination   of  watching  ns. 
to  the  farming  people   near  Reading,  his  wife's  !  We  shall  have  to  be  very  carelul.' 
poor  relatives.     But  ilicy   bad   heard   nothing  of  (    . 

her.  They  had  wondered,  indeed,  at  liavmu;  i  o  It  was  earlv  in  the  new  year  that  EfdiviKl 
letters  from  lier;  for  she  had  been  very  kind  to;  Arundel  completed  all  his  arr:ingements  ind  tock 
them.  They  were  terribly  distressed  whe-i  they  j  possession  of  Kemberling  Retreat.  H**  kncr 
heard  of  her  disappearance.  ;  that,  in  retiring  from  the   East  India  (\imp«iiy'i 

This  was  the  forlorn  hope.  It  was  all  over  <i  si^rvice,  he  hstd  sacrificed  the  pro»pect»  of  »  bfil- 
now.  Edward  Arundel  could  no  longer  struggle  j  liant  and  glorioui<  career,  nn<!er  soii;r  of  ttiv, 
against  the  cru«l  truth.  Ho  could  do  notlmii;  ;  finest  soldiers  who  •vcr  foiiilit  for  tlicir  r()«iilry. 
now  but  avenge  his  wife's  sorrows.  He  weni  j  Hut  he  bad  made  thi^  sacrifice  wil|iriL'l_> — »s  an 
down  to  Devonshire,  saw  bis  mother,  and  t'dd  ;' ofleririg  to  the  memory  of  his  lost  lo**-;  s*  an 
her  the  sad  story  of  Mark's  flight.  Hut  he  could  '  atonement  for  bis  broken  trust.  Kor  it  wa«  (  ui 
not  rest  at  Dangerfiebi,  thoui;b  Mrs.  Arundel  iin-  of  his  most  bitter  miseries  to  remenibei-  that  bis 
plored  him  to  stwy  long  enough  to  recruit  bis  shat-  '  own  want  of  prudence  bad  heen  the  first  rauie  of 
lered  health.  He  hurried  bark  to  i^ondon,  made  \  all  Mary's  sorrows.  Had  he  confided  in  his  mo- 
arrangements  wiih  his  agent  for  the  purchase  ofMlier — bad  be  induced  brr  to  return  frotn  Ger- 
his  .ca[ttaincy  amonj  his  brotlier  officers,  and  many  to  be  present  at  his  mirriage,  and  to  ac- 
then,  turning  his  hack  upon  the  career  ibat  had  cept  the  orphan  girl  us  a  daughter — Mary  nerd 
been  far  dearer  to  him  than  his  life,  he  went  i  never  again  have  fallen  into  the  power  of  Olivia 
down  to  Lincolnshire  once  more  in  the  dreary  i  Marchmont.  His  o^\  n  imprudencr,  bj^  own  rash- 
wintry  weather,  to  watch  and  wtii  patiently,  if ;  nes^,  bad  flung  his  pi  or  ciiild,  helpless  »nd 
need  were,  for  the  day  of  retribution.  j  fri*  ndless,  into  the  bands  of  the  very  man  sgainsi 


There  was  a  detached  cottage,  a  lonely  place 
enough,  between  Kemberling  and  Maichmont 
Towers,  that  had  been  to  If  l  for  a  long  time,  be- 
ing very  much  out  of  repair,  and  by  no  means  in- 
viting in  appearance.  Edward  .\ruridel  to-iklbis 
cottage.  All  necfssary  repairs  and  alterations 
were  executed  under  the  direction  of  Mr.  Morri- 
son, who  was  to  remain  permanently  in  the 
young  man's  service.  Captain  Aiundel  bad  a 
cou|i!e  of  horses  brought  duwii  lo  hi*  nt-w  stable, 
and  hired  u  country  lud,  who  was  to  act  as  groom 
under  the   eye  of  the   factotum.     Mr.   Moiri-on 


whom  John  Marrbmont  bad  written  a  loli  niu 
warning — a  warning  ttiat  it  would  have  been  Ed- 
ward's  duiy  to  remember.  Hut  '«bo  could  have 
calculated  upon  the  railway  accident;  atid  who 
couhl  have  foreset  n  a  separation  in  the  fust  blush 
of  the  honfy-moon.'  Edward  Arundel  had  trusted 
in  his  own  pi'wer  to  protect  bi«  bride  from  avrry 
ill  that  might  assail  her.  In  the  pride  of  his 
Y"Utb  and  strength  be  forgot  that  he  was  not  im- 
inortal.  an<l  ibc  lasi  idea  that  coii'd  Icirr  enicrrd 
his  niit  (I  was  the  lioiigtit  that  he  should  br 
stiiclieii  <lown  by  a  sudderi  ral«mity,and  rendered 


and    this   lad,   with    ono   female  ••rvant,  formed  even  more,  hwlpbss  ttian  the  girl  he  had  swoeti  lo 

Edw  nil's  establishment.  flhield  and  shelter. 

faul    Marcninonl  lilted    his  auburn   eyebrows  The   bleak    winter   crept  slowly   past,  and  the 

when  he  heard  ot  the  new  tenant  of  Kciuberlmg  sbri'll  March  winds  were  loud  amidst   the  leafless 

Retreat.     The   lonely    rottagu    had    tieen    chns-  trees    in   the   wo(<d    behind    .Marchruonl  Toweri. 

leiied  Ivfmberlmg  Rttreal  hy  a   •rntimental  ten-,  This  wood   was  open   to    any  lool-psstrngfr  wUi- 

ant,  wlio    had   ultimateiy    levanted  with   his  rent  might  choose  to    wander   tlut  ws^;   and  Ed*\arJ 

three  quartert  in  arrear.     The  artist  exhibited  a  Arundtl  often  wa  ked  upon  the  bank  of  the  slow 

gentlemanly  surprise  at   this   new   vagary  of  Ed-  river,   and    pa^l    ihe   boat-b'U«e,   beneath  wbo?e 

ward  Arundel's,  and    publicly  expressed  his  pity  ■  shadow  ba  bad  wooed  bis  young  wife  in  the  bright 

for  the  foolish  voiing  man.                                              ^  summer  that  was  gone.     The  place  had  a  iiiourn- 

'1  am  so  sorry  ihat  the  poor  fellow  should  ,  fnl  attraction  for  the  young  msn.  by  ress-'n  of 
sncrifice  himself  to  a  romantic  grief  for  my  un-  the  nT-mory  of  ihe'iast,  and  a  difTerent  snd  far 
foruinate  cousin,'  Mr.  Marctimont  said,  in  the  keener  fascination  in  t>'e  fact  of  Paul  March- 
parlor  of  the  Ulack  IJoll,  where  be  condescended  mont's  frfequent  occu|iation  of  his  lougtilv-buitt 
to  drop  in  now  and  then  with  his  brother-in-law,  painting  room. 

and  to  make  himself  popu  ar  among  ttie  magnates  In  •  pu'po^Hle'S  and    un'Mtb-d    frame   of  mind 

of    Kemberling    and     t)je     tenant    tanners,  who  IMward    Arundel   kept   w«trli  upon  the   man  he 

looked  to  him  as  their  fufure,  if  not  their  actual  hnteil.  sc:»rccly  knowing  why  he  watched,  or  for 

landlord.     '1   am   really   sorry  ff)r  the   poor  lad.  vtiat    he   hoped,   but    with    a    vugne  belief  Ihat 

He's  a  handsome,   bigh-spiriicd    fellow,  and  I'm  »oineihin<  would  be  discovered;   that  some  acri- 

sorry  he's  been  so  weak  as  to  ruin   his  prospects  -lent  might  come  to  past  tvbioh  would  enable  him 

in    the  Company's  service.      Yes,    I   am  heartily  to  »ay  to  I'aul  Marehmont  : 

sorry  for  bim.'  'It  was   by   your  treacberT  my  wife   perished; 

Mr.     Maichmont    discussed     Ihe    matter  very  and    it    it  yoii   who   must  answer,  to    me  for  her 

lightly  in   the    parlor  of  th«  Black   Hull;  but  he  death.' 

'kept  silence  as  he  walked  home  with  the  surgeon;  Edwaid  Arundel  bad  "ecn  nothing  of  fi:«  Cousin 

and  Mr.  George  Weston,  lookr?  askance  at  his  Oivia  during  that  rllsmsl   wir'ter.     He  fiad   held 

brother-in-law's   fare,  snw    th,«t    »o;iielhing  was  himself  nloof  from  the   lowers  — that  is  to  say,  Im 

wrong,  and  Ihougni  it  advisahle  to  hold  his  pcsi'e.  tiad   never   preaj-nted    himself  there   »»  a   gurat, 

Paul  Marcbmont  sat  up  late  that  night  talking  j  though  he  had   heen   often  on  horseback  b' d  on 

to  hit  liater  after  the  surgeon   had  gone  to  bed.  j  foot  in  the  wood  by  the  riv»r.     He  had  cot  seen 


104 


JOHN  MARCHMONT'S  LEGACY. 


Oliria,  but  he  had  heard  of  her  through  bis  valet, 
Mr.  Morrison,  who  msisied  on  repeating  the  gos- 
sip of  Kemberlirig  (or  the  benefit  of  his  lisUtss 
and  indillert:nt  masler. 

'  I'liey  do  say  as  Mr.  Paul  Marchmont  is  going 
to  nriarrv  Mrs.  .lohti  Marchmont,  Sir,'  Mr.  Alor- 
y'lUDU  said,  delii^liied  at  the  importance  of  liis  in- 
formation. '  I  ht-v  say  as  Mr.  Paul  is  aiwii>s  up 
at  tli«  Tovvpi-s  visilir.g  Mrs.  Jolui,  and  ttiat  -ihe 
lakes  his  auvicc  about  every  thing  as  she'does, 
ar.d  i.h;i\  she's  quite  wrappi-d  up  in  Jiim  like.' 

■Mlv/ard  Arundel  looked  at  his  altcndant  with 
untTiiligaied  sur|)iise. 

'My  Cousin  Olivia  marry  Paul  Marchmout!' 
lie  exclaiiTi»-d  'Vou  should  Le  wiser  than  to 
Jisleii^io  such  foolish  ;iossip,  Morrison.  You  linow 
whatoouMHy  people  aie.iuid  you  know  they  can't 
keep  their  tongues  quiet.' 

iVIr.  Morrison  took  this  reproach  as  a  compli- 
ment to  his  sup'Tior  iniellig.nne. 

'It  ain't  ofieiitimcs  I  listen  to  their  talk,  Sir,' 
he  .said;  'but  if  I've  ht-ard  this  said  once  I've 
lipard  It  twenty  liint'S;  and  I've  heard  it  iit  Ihc 
Ulack  Bull,  too,  Mr.  Edward,  where  Mr.  March- 
mont frequents  sometimes  witli  his  sister's  hus- 
band; ai.d  ihe  landlord  told  me  as  it  had  bee:i 
spoken  of  once  before  his  face,  and  lie  didn't 
deny  it.' 

Edward  Arundel  pondered  gravely  over  this 
gossip  of  the  Kemberling  people.  It  was  not  so 
very  improbable,  perhaps,  alter  all.  Olivia  only 
held  Marchmont  Towers  on  suderance.  It  might 
be  that,  rafher  than  be  turned  out  of  her  stately 
home,  she  would  accept  the  hand  of  its  rightful 
owner.  She  would  mt^rry  Paul  Marchmont,  per- 
haps, as  she  had  inarried  his  brother— for  the 
sake  of  a  fortune  and  a  position.  She  had 
grudged  Mary  her  wealth,  and  now  she  sought  to 
becoHie  a  sharer  in  that  wealth.  ^ 

'Oh,  the  villainy,  the  villainy!'  cried  the  sol- 
dier. 'Jt  is  all  one  base  fabric  of  treachery  and 
wrong.  A  marriage  between  these  two  will  be 
only  a  part  of  the  scheme.  Between  them  they 
have  driven  my  darling  to  her  death,  and  they 
will  now  divide  the  profits  of  their  guilty  work.' 

The  young  man  dutermined  to  discover  whe- 
ther there  ha4  been  any  Ibundation  for  the  Kem- 
berling gossip,  'le  had  not  seen  his  cousin  since 
the  day  of  his  discovery  of  the  paragrapli  in  the 
newspaper,  and  lie  went  forthwith  to  the  'J'owers, 
bent  on  asking  Olivia  the  straight  question  as 
to  the  truth  of  the  reports  that  tiad  reached  his 
ears. 

He  walked  over  to  the  dreary  mansion.  He 
had  regained  his  strength  by*this  time,  and  he 
had  recovered  his  good  looks;  but  something  of 
the  brightness  of  his  youth  was  gone;  something 
of  the  golden  glory  of  his  beauty  had  faded.  He 
was  no  longer  the  young  Apollo,  fresh  and  ra- 
diant with  the  divinity  of  the  skies.  He  had  suf- 
fered: and  suffering  had  left  its  traces  on  his 
countenance.  That  virgin  hopefulness,  that  sii- 
])reme  confidence  in  a  bright  future,  \vhich  is  the 
virginity  of  beauty,  .had  perished  beneath  the 
withering  influencr  of  attliciion. 

Mrs.  Marchmu'it  was  not  to  be  seen  at  the 
Towers.  She  had  gone  down  to  the  boat-house 
with  Mr.  Paul  ^!al■cbmont  and  Mrs.  Weston,  the 
■ervantsaid.  / 

'I  will  see  them  together,'  Edward  Arundel 
thought  'I  will  see  if  my  cousin  dares  to  tell 
jiie  that  sSe  means  to  marry  this  man.' 

He  walked  through  tlie  wood  lo  the  dilapidated 
building  by  the  river.    The  Maich  windi  were 


)  blowing  among  the  leafless  ttten,  swirling  the 
•  black  pools  of  water  that  the  rain  had  left  in 
every  hollow;  the  smoke  from  the  chimney  of 
.Paul  Marchmont's  paiiiting-room  struggltd  hope- 
;  lessly  againjt  the  wind,  and  was  beaten  back 
;'upon  the  roof  from  which  it  tried  to  hse.  Every 
'thing  succumbed  before  that  piiiiess  northeaster. 
■  Edward  Arundel  knocked  at  the  door  of  the 
i  wooden  edifice  erected  by  his  i<ic.  He  scarcely 
;  wailed  for  the  answer  to  his  summons,  but  iifl'ed 
/the  latch,  and  walked  across  the  threshold,  unin- 
;  vited,  unwelcome. 

}  There  were  four  people  in  the  painting-room. 
!  Two  or  three  seemed  to  have  been  talking  to- 
;gelher  v.'hen  Edward  knocked  at  the  door;  but 
the  speakers  had  stopped  simultaneously  and 
;  abruptly,  and  there  was  a  dead  silence  when  he 
^entered. 

)     Olivia  -.Marchmont    was    standing    under  the 
'broad    northern    window;  the   artist   was  silting 
u()(in  one  of  ihe  steps  leading   up  to  the  pavilion; 
'and  a  lew  paces  from    him,  in   an   o.d  cane-cliair 
'/iitav  the  easel,  sat  Geoige  VV'eston,  ttie  surgeon, 
;  with  his  wife  leaning  over  the  baok  of  his  chair. 
;  It  was  at  this  mar  that  Edward  Arundel  looked 
-  longest,  riveted  by  the  strange  expression  of  his 
[  face.     'I  he  traces  of  intense  agitation  have  a  pe- 
culiar force  when  seen  in  a  bsually  stolid  counte- 
riance      Your  mobile  faces  are   apt  to  give   an 
:  exaggerated  record  of  emotion.     We   ^row  ac- 
i  customed    to   their    changeful   expression,  their 
vivid  betrayal  of  every  passing  sensation.     But 
Ihis  man's  was  one  of  those  faces  which  are  only 
changed  from  their  apathetic  stillness  by  some 
'  moral  earthquake,  whose  shock  arouses  the  dull- 
est man  from  his  stupid  imperturbability.     Such 
'  a  shock  had  lately  affected  George  Weston,  the 
;  quiet  surgeon  of  Kemberiiiig,  the  submissive  hus- 
i  band  of  Paul  Marchmont's  sister.     His  face  was 
'  as  wjiite  as  death;  a  slow  trembling  shook  his 
'  ponderous  frame;  with  one  of  his  big  fat  hands 
he  pulled  a  cotton  handkerchief  from  liis  pocket. 
^  and  tremulously  wiped  the  perspiration  from  his 
;  bald   forehead.     His   wife    bent  over   him,    and 
■  whispered  a  icw  words  in  his  ear;  but  he  shook 
his  head  with  a  piteous  gesture,  as  if  to  testify 
his  inability  to  comprehend  her.     It  was  impos- 
sible for  a  man  to  betray  more  obvious  signs  of 
.  violent  agitation  than  tliis  man  betra>ed. 
'      'It's   no   use,    Lavinia,'   he   murmured,  hope- 
I  lessly,  as  his  wife  whispered  to  him  for  the  sec- 
ond lime;  'it's  no  use,  my  dear;  I  cari"t  get  over 

;it.' 

Mr.?.  Weston  cast  one  rapid,  half-despairing, 

^  half-appealing  glance  at  her  brother,  and  in  the 

nctt  moment  recovered  herself,  by  an  effort  only 

;>  sucli  as  great  women,  or  v/icked  women,  are  ca- 

;  pable  of. 

i     'Oh,  you  men  !'  she  cried,  in  her  liveliest  voice; 
;  'oil,  you  men  !     \Vhat  big  silly  babies,  what  ner- 
;  vous  creatures  you  are !     Come,  George,  I  won't 
f  have  you  giving  way  to  this  foolish  nonsense,  just 
\  beciiUKC  an  extra  glass  or  so  of  Mrs.  Marchmont's 
;  very  line  old  port  "has  happened  to  disagree  with 
:  you      You  must  not  think  that  we  are  a  drunk- 
ard, Mr.  Arundel,'  added  the  iady,  turning  pJay- 
ftiily    to    Elward,    and    jiatting    her    husband's 
clumsy  shoulder  as  she  spoke;  'we  are  only  a  poor 
village  surgeon  with  a  very  weak  head,  and  quite  * 
unaccustomed    to    pale    old    port.     Come,    Mr. 
George  Weston,  match  out  into  the  open   air, 
;  Sir,  and  let  ift  see  if  the  March  wind  will  bring 
you  back  your  senses. ' 
And  without  another  word   Lavinia  Weiton 


JOHN  MARCHMONT'S  LEGACY. 


105 


hustled  her  husband,  who  walked  like  a  man  in 
a  dream,  out  oF  the  painting-room,  and  closed 
the  door  beliind  her. 

Paul  Marchmont  laughed  as  the  door  shut  upon 
his  brother-in-law. 

•Poor  G.'orge!'  he  said,  carelessly;  'I  thought 
he  helped  himself  to  the  port  a  lilile  loo  liberally. 
He  tiev»-r  could  stand  a  t^'ass  oi'  wine;  sind  he's 
llie  most  stupid  creature  when  he  is  drunk.' 

Excellent  as  all  this  by-play  wasj  Edward 
Arundel  was  not  doccived  by  it. 

•Tne  mm  was  not  drunk,'  he  thought;  'he  was 
frightened.  What  could  have  happened  to  ihrow 
him  into  that  state.'  What  niyslerf  are  these 
people  hiding  among  themselves,  and  what 
8  lould  he  have  to  do  with  ii .'' 

'Good-eveninsr,  Captain  .Arundel ,' Paul  March- 
mont said.     '1  congratulate  you  on  the  change  in 
-your  appearance  since  jou  were  last  in  tlii>?  place. 
You  seem  to  have  quite  leciivered  the  eti'ecls  of 
tli'it  terrible  railway  accident.' 

EdA'Hid  Arundel  drew  himself  up  stiffly  as  the 
a  'list  spoke  to  him. 

We  can  noi  mi'ct  eitcept  as  enemies,  Mr. 
M  irchm  >nt.' he  said.  'My  cwi-in  ha.s  no  doubt 
told  you  what  I  said  of  you  when  1  discovered 
the  lying  paragripti  which  you  caused  to  be 
shown  to  mv  wile 

'!  only  did  wh;it  any  one  else  would  have  done 
under  the  cu-cumstances,'  Paul  Matchmont 
answered,  quietly.  'I  was  deceived  by  some 
penny-a-liner's  false  report.  How  should  I  know 
the  elfect  that  report  would  have  upon  my  un- 
happy cousin .''  » 

'I  can  nut  discuss  this  mntter  with  you,'  cried 
Edward  Arundel,'  h.s  voice  tremulous  will*  pas- 
siu.'i;  'I  am  almost  mad  when  1  think  of  it.  1  am 
not  safe;  1  darte  not  trust  myself.  I  look  upon 
you  as  the  deliberate  assassin  of  a  helpless  girl, 
birt  so  skillful  an  assassin  that  DOthimi  less  than 
the  vengeai.ce  of  God  can  touch  you.  1  cry  aloud 
to  Him  night  .ind  day,  in  the  hope  that  He  will 
hear  me  and  avenge  my  wife's  death.  1  can  not 
look  to  any  earthly  law  fur  help;  but  1  trust  in 
God,  1  trust  in  God.' 

There  are  very  few  positive  and  consistent 
athci«ls  in  this  world.  IVlr.  Paul  Marchmont  was 
a  philosopher  of  the,  infidel  school,  a  student  of 
V'ollaireand  the  brotherhood  of  the  Encyclopidia, 
and  a  believer  in  those  liberal  days  before  the 
Reign  of  Terror,  •Avhen  Frenchmen  in  coHce- 
houses,  discussed  the  Supreme  under  the  sobri- 
quet of  Mons.  I'Etre;  but  he  grew  a  little  paler 
iis  Ed'vard  Arundel,  with  kindling  eyes  and 
uplifted  hand,  declared  his  faith  in  a  Divine 
Avenger. 

The  skeptical  artist  may  have  thought: 

'What  if  Ihijro  should  be  some  reality  in  the 
creed  so  many  weak  fools  confide  in  ?  What  if 
there  i.i  a  (io-.l  who  can  not  abide  iniquity.'' 

'i  came  here  to  look  for 'you.  Olivia,  Edward 
Arundel  said,  presently,  'i  want  to  ask  you  n 
question.  Will  you  come  into  the  wood' with 
me?' 

•Yc«,  if  you  wish  it,'  Mrs.  Marchmont  an- 
swered, quietly. 

The  rtousino  went  out  of  the  painting-room  to- 
■:r!her,   Ictiving  Paul   Marchmont  alone.      They 

liked  on  for  a  few  yanls  in  silence. 

•What  U  the  qu'*xtion  you  rainp  here  Jo  a«k 
me?'  Olivia  sskeil,  abruptiv. 

•The  Kembrrling  people  have  raided  a  report 
about  you  which  I  should  fancy  wnu'd  be  scarcely 
agreeable  to  yourself.     You  would   hardly  wish 
11 


to  benefit  by  Mary  Marchmont's  death,  would  you, 
Olivia?' 

He  looked  at  her  searchingly  ashespoke.  Her 
face  was  at  all  times  so  expressive  of  hidden 
cares,  of  cruel  mental  tortures,  that  there  was 
little  room  in  her  countenance  for  any  new  emo- 
tion. Her  couein  looked  ih  vain  for  any  change 
in  it  now. 

'Hcnefif  by  her  death!'  she  exclaimed.  'How 
should  I  benefit  by  her  death  ?' 

'By  marrjing  the  man  who  inherits  this  estate. 
They  say  you  are  going  to  marry  Paul  March- 
mont.' 

Olivia  looked  at  him  with  an  expression  of  sur- 
prise. 

'Do   they  say  that  of  me?'  she  asked.     'Do   \ 
people  sav  that?' 

'They  do.     Is  it  true,  Olivia  ?' 

The  widow  turned  upon  him  almost  fiercely. 

'What  does  it  matter  to  \ou  whether  it  is  true 
or  not?  What  do  you  care  whom  I  marry,  or 
what  becomes  of  me  ?' 

'I  care  this  m'lch,'  Fdward  Arundfl  answered, 
'  thai  1  would  I'ot  have  your  reputation  lied  away 
by  the  gos  ips  of  Ktmhcrling.  I  should  despise 
you  if  you  married  this  man.  But  if  you  do  not 
mean  to  narrv  him,  ycu  have  no  right  to  en- 
comage  bin  visil>:  ytu  are  trifling  with  your  own 
good  name.  You  should  leave  this  place,  and  by 
that  means  give  the  lie  to  any  false  rt|)orts  that 
have,  arisen  about  you.' 

•Leave  this  place  !'  cried  Olivia  Marchmont, 
with  a  hitter  laugK.  '  Lf  a  ve  this  place  !  Oh  my 
God,  if  I  could;  if  I  could  eo  away  and  bury 
my.  elf  somewhere  at  the  other  end  of  the  world, 
and  forget — and  forget"  i^lnc  said  tins  as  if  to 
hf  r.^elf;  as  if  it  was  a  cry  of  despair  wrung  from 
her  in  despite  of  herself:  then,  turning  to  Ed-ward 
Aruirlel.  she  said,  in  a  quieter  voice,  ■  I  can  never 
leave  this  place  till  I  leave  it  in  my  coffin.  I  am 
■a  prisoner  here  for  life.' 

She  turned  from  him,  and  walked  slowly  away, 
with  her  face  toward  the  dying  sunlight  in  the 
low  western  sky. 


CHAPTF.R  XXVI. 

r,  dwaud's    viiitors. 

I     Perhaps  no  greater  sacrifice  had   ever  been 

!  made  by  an  English   gentleman  than  that  which 

1  Edward  Arundel  willingly  ofl'ered  upas  an  atona- 

;  nicnt  for  his  broken  trust,  as  a  tribute  to  his  lost 

wife.     Brave,   ardent,   generous,   and   sanguine. 

;  this   young  soldier  saw   before    him  a  brilliant 

,  career  in  the  profession  which  he  loved.    He  saw 

I  glory  and  distmction  beckoning  to  him  from  afjr, 

and  lurned  his  back  upon   those  shining  Sirens. 

,  He  gave  up  all;  in  the  Taguo  hope  of,  sooner  or 

Inter,  avenging  Mary's  wrongs  upon  Paul  March 

;  raont. 

He  made  no  boast,  even  to  himielf,  of  that 
;  which  he  had  done.  Again  and  again  memory 
brought  linrk  to  him  the  day  upon  which  he 
breaiifastc'i  in  Oakley -^t'eet  and  walked  acroi«, 
"VVat»-rluo  Bridge  with  the  Dmry  Eane  supernu- 
noerary.  Every  word  that  .lohn  Marchmont  had 
'  fipokeu:  every  look  of  the  meek  and  trusting  eyei, 
ili«  pale  and  thoughtful  fare;  every  pre««ur«  of 
the  ibin  hand  which  had  grasped  his  in  grateful 
atf<?ction,  in  friendly  confidence — came  back  to 
Edward  Arundel  after  an  interval  of  netrly  ten 


10€ 


JOHN  MARCHMONT'S  LEGACY. 


years,  and  brought  with  tbem  a  bitter  sense  of  j  coming  of  each  new  record  of  that  Indian  war 


seJf-rcp  roach 

•He  trusted  his  daughter  to  me,'  the  young 
man  thought.  'Those  last  words  in  the  poor  tef- 
low's  It^tier  are  always  in  my  mind:  *1"hc-only 
bequest  which  I  can  leave  to  the  only  friend  1 
have  is  the  legacy  of  a  child's  helplessness.' 
And  I  have  slighted  his  soleain  warning:  and  1 
have  heen  false  to  my  trust.' 

In  his  scrupulous  sense  of  honor,  the  soldier 
reproached  himself  as  bitterly  for  that  impru- 
dence, out  of  which  so  much  evil  had  arisen,  as 
another  man  minht  have  done  alter  a  wiiU'ul  be- 
trayal of  his  trust.  He  could  not  forgive  him- 
self. He  was  for  ever  and  ever  repeating  in  his 
own  mind  that  one  brief  phrase  which  is  the  uni 


fiire.  He  was  like  a  devourer  of  romances,  who 
reads  a  thrilling  story  Unk  bv  link,  and  who  is 
impatient  for  every  new  chapter  of  the  fiction. 
His  dreams  were  of  noihing  but  battle  and  victory, 
danger,  triumph,  and  deaUi;  and  he  often  wcko 
in  the  morning  exhausted  by  the  excitement  ol 
ihose  visionary  struggle",  those  phantom  terrors. 
His  sabre  hung  over  the  cliimney-piece  in  his 
■simple  bedchamber.  He  took  it  down  some- 
limes,  and  drew  it  from  the  sheolh.  He  could 
lave  almost  wept  aloud  over  that  idle  sword.  He 
raised  his  arm,  atid  the  weapon  vibrated  with  a 
whizzing  noise  as  he  swept  the  glittering  steel  in 
a  wide  circle  through  the  empty  air.  An  infidel's 
lead  should  have  been  swept  from  his  vile  car- 


versal  chorm  of  erring  men's  regret:  •  If  I  had     oass  in  that  rapid  circle  of  the  keen-edced  hlade 


acted  ditferently,  if  J  had  done  otherwise,  this  oi 
that  would  not  have  come  to  pass.'  We  are  per- 
petually wandering  amidst  the  hopeless  deviations 
of  a  maze,  finding  pitfalls  and  precipice?,  quick- 
sands and  morasses,  at  every  turn  in  the  painful 
way;  and  we  look  back  at  the  end  of  our  journey 
to  discover  a  straight  and  pleasant  roadway  h] 
which,  had  we  been  wise  enough  to  choose  it,  we 
mi^ht  have  traveled  safely  and  comfortably  t< 
our  destination. 

But  Wisdom  waits  for  us  at  the  goal  instead  o' 
accompai>ying  us  upon  our  journey,  tshe  is  : 
divinity  whom  we  only  meet  very  late  in  life: 
when  we  are  too  near  the  end  of  our  trouhiesium 
march  to  derive  much  profit  from  her  coun-els 
Wi;  can  only  retail  ihcni  to  our  juniors,  who,  ml 
geltini;  ihuni  fiom  tlic  fountain-head,  have  ver»  S 
small  yppiycialion  ol   their  value  f 

'I  he  young  captam  of  E.st  Indian  cavalry  snf 
fered   very  cruelly  from    the  sHcrifirc   which    l.t  ; 
had   mai-'c.     Day   after  day,  day  afirr  day,  the  j 
isSow,  drearv,  changeless,  evcntle-s,  and  unhrokci 
life  dr;r:g  d  i'si'lf  out;  and  nothing  happened  tr 
hio'n:  hii:i  aiiv  iie:irer  to"  the  purpose  of  this  i;to- 
noion  lis  exi^tcnce•,  no  promls-i  of  even  ultin.ati  ; 
sucees-s  I e Warded  his  hemic  self-<>votir.n.     Afai  < 
.'■e  fieard  of  the  rush  and  clnmov  of  war,  of  ;lan-  \ 
f;ers  and  tenor,  of  conipiost  ono  g'ory.     His  ,-iwn  ' 


("he  soldier's  artn  was  as  strong  as  ever,  his  wVist 
IS  suple,  his  tniisrular  force  unwasfed  by  mental* 
suffering.  Thank  Heaven  for  that.  Hut  after 
that  brief  th-mksgiving  his  arm  dropped  inertly, 
and  the  idle  sword  fell  out  ol  his  relaxing  gf^asp. 
•I  seem  a  craven  to  myself,'  he  ciied;  '  1  have 
no  right  to  be  liere — 1  have  no  right  to  be  here 
A'hile  tho'C  other  fellovxs  are  fijihling  for  their 
ives  out  yonder.  O  Giid,  have  mercy  upoti  me! 
My  brain  g^ets  dazed  Sometimes:  and  I  begin  to 
wonder  whether  1  am  most  boutid  to  remain  here 
iiid  watch  Paul  Marchmont,  or  to  go  yonder  and 
ighi  for  my  countiy  arid  my  Queen.' 

There  were  many  phases  in  this  mental  fcver. 
\t  one  time  the  y<  ung  man  was  seized  with  a 
<ivage  jealousy  of  the  oflicer  vi  ho  had  succei  ded 
•o  Ins  capKiincy  He  watched  this  n.an'sname, 
itid  every  record  of  his  movetnents,  arid  was 
•onstanlly  taking  objection  to 'his  conducl.  He 
vws  trudingiy  envious  oi  this  particular  >  fTicer's 
triumphs,  liowever  small  He  could  not  feel 
■;cncrou»ly  touard  this  happy  successor,  in  the 
litieiness  <  f  t  is  own  etifoiceU  idleness. 

'What  ■'pporliinit  es  thi-  man  has!  he  thought; 
'/never  had  vuch  thanc-s.' 

It  i-  n'liiost  irnpossihle  for  me  to  failhfii'ly  de- 
scribe thu  ti^rlures  V.  hich  this  monolotious  exist- 
ence innicti  d  upon  the  impf-luous  ycnng  mart.     It 


letinient  w;is  in  the  thick  of  the  sttife,  Ms  bro-  <  is  the  sp(  ciaity  of  a  soldier's  career  that  it  imfits 
Itici's  in  arms  w  m  doiny;  wonders.-  Kvcry  mai'  S  nio-i  men  f..r  any  other  lif-.  They  can  not  throw 
bi-Miisiiii  M.in.-  new  rocoid  of  irinniph  and  >;lory  *  .df  the  old  habiiodes.  Th^y  ran  not  turn  from 
'i'hu  soldier's  heait  sickened  as  he  read  tl  i  |  ihe,  noisy  stir  of  war  to  the  tame  quiet  of  tvery- 
ftoi\  of  eacti  ricw  encounter:  his  heart  sickeneil     •       •   •  ■  .         ..        ^ 

with,  that  (erribi«  yearning — that  yearning  which 
seems  phy-ically  p;i'p:ihle  in  its  perfieinal  pain; 
the  \<arning  with  uhich  a  child  at  a  hard  schooi, 
lying  hroad  awake  in  the  |on«-,  gloomy,  rush-lit 
bedchamber  in  the  dead  o(  the  silent  i  iuht,  re 
members  the  soft  reslintr-plnce  of  his  mother'^ 
b()>^om;  the  3earninff  with  which  a  faithful  hus- 
bHud  far  away  from  home  sighs  f  r  the  |  reset  c» 
oC  the  wife  he  loves,  l^ven  with  such  a  heart- 
sickness  as  this  Kdward  Aiundel  pine,d  to  be  |  upon  a  level  plain.  The  rebellious  waters  boiled 
ariiong  the  familiar  faces  yonder  in  the  East — to  j  and  foamed  in  a  gudden  fury.  7'he  soldier  could 
hear,  the    frtumphant   yell    of   his  men    as  they  .     -.  .  •        ./•         .      .    n    ..-   l.-  <•  -.       .■ 

swurmed  after  him  through  the  breach  in  an 
Afghan  wall — to  see  the  dark  heathens  blanch 
under  the  terror  of  Christian  swords. 

He.  read   every  record  of  the  war  again   and 
.again,  again  a^d  again,  till  each   scene  arose  he 


day  I  fe:  and  even  when  they  fancy  themselves 
wearied  and  worn-out,  and  wihin^l}  retire  from 
service,  their  sctils  are  stirred  by  eveiy  sound  of 
the  distant  contest,  as  the  war-steed  is  aroused 
hy  the  blast  of  the  trumpet.  J3ut  Fdward  Arun- 
del's career  had  been  cut  suddenly  short  at  the 
very  hour  in  which  it  was  brightest  with  the 
promise  of  future  glory.  It  was  as  if  a  torrent 
rushine  madly  down  a  mountain-side  had  been 
dammed  up,  atid  its    waters   bidden  to  stagnate 


not  submit  himself  contentedly  to  his  f;'te.  He 
mijht  strip  off  his  uniform,  and  accept  sordid 
coin  as  the  price  of  the  epaulets  he  had  won  so 
dearly;  but  he  was  at  heart  a  soldier  still.  When 
he  recei>ed  the  bank  bills  which  were  the  price 
of  his. captaincy,  it  seemed  to  him  ainiost  as  if 


fore  him — a  picture,  flaming  and  lurid,  grandly  ;  he  had  sold  his  brother's  blood 
beMUtii'il,  horribly  sublime.  The  very  words  ci' {  It  was  snmnier-time  now.  Ten  months  had 
those  newspaper  reports  seemed  to  blaze  upon  ^  elafised  since  his  marriage  witii  Mary  March- 
the  paper  on  which  they  were  written,  so  palpa- '  inoiit,  and  no  new  lieht  had  been  throv.nupon 
ble  were  the  images  which  they  evoked  in  the  ( the  disappearance  of  his  young  wife.  No  ore 
soldier's  mind.  He  was  frantic  in  his  eager  im-  could  feel  a  moment's  doiibt  as  to  her  fate.  She 
patience  for  the  arrival  of  «Tery  mail,  for  the  (had  perished  in  that  lonely  river  which  flowed 


JOHN  MARCHMONT'S  LEGACY. 


107 


behind  Marchraout  Towers,  and  far  away  down  j  wrote,     'Come  back  to  me,  my  dearest  boy,     I 
to  llie  sea.  •  j  gaye  you  up  t>>  the  service  of  your  country,  be- 

The  artist  had  kept  his  word,  and  had  as  yet  ;  cause  it  whs  my  duly  to  resign  yon  t(i«-n.  Hut  I 
filceii  ni)  step  toward  etiteiiug  into  possession  of  (  can  not  aH'jrd  to  lose  you  now.  1  can  not.  bear 
the  estate  which  he  inherited  by  his  cousin's)  to  see  you  sacrificing  yourself  to  a  chimera, 
death.  But  Mr.  Paul  Marchmont  spent  a  great  j  Keturn  to  iiie;  and  Ici  me  see  you  mnkc  a  new 
deal  of  time  at  tiie  Towers,  and  a  gr^at  deal  *  and  happierchoice.  Let  me  see  my  son  the  father 
more  time  in  the  painting-room  by  the  river- '  of  Itule  children  wiio  will  gather  round  my  knees 
side,  sjinetimes  accompanied  by  his  sister,  some-  >  when  I  grow  old  and  feeble.' 
times  alone.  i      '.\  new  und  h;ippier  clmico  !'  EdWard  Arundel 

The  Ivemberling  gossips  had  grown  by  no  1  repeated  tiie  woris  wiih  a  melanchuiy  bitimi- sg, 
means  less  talkative  upon  the  subject  of  Olivia,  i  'No,  my  puop  lost  gin;  no,  my  blighted  wile,  f 
and  the  new  owner  of  Marchmont  Towers,  On  j  wilJ  noi  Oe  false  to  joii.  The  sm^c.  %f  happy 
iLo  contrary,  Iho  voices  that  discussed  Mrs  womefi  can  have  no  sunlight  U>v  me  while'  I 
Marchmont's  conduct  were  a  great  deal  more  ;  cherish  the  memory  of  the  sad  ejes  th  At  watche**: 
numerous  than  heretofore;  in  other  words,  John  me  wtun  I  drove  Sway  (rom  Milldale,  th«  sweelM 
Marchmont's  widow  was  'talked  about.'  Every  sorrowful  face  that  1  was  never  to  look  upoD' 
tLing  is  said  in  this  phrase.     It  was  scarcely  that }  again. ' 

people  said  bad  ttinss  of  her;  it  was  rather  that  ,  The  du'i.  empty  days  succeeded  each  6\lc- 
they  talked  more  about  her  than  any  woman  can  :  „nd  di-l  ns-mt.le  each  other,  wiih  a  weaiis.mv 
saflerto  bet^lKedoi  with  safely  to  her  fair  lame  '  similitude  that  weJt-iNigh  cxhaus-ed  the  paiiunco 


fhey  began  by  S3)i..g  that  .he  wa.Ro.n|;  lo  nlarr^  ;  „   ,|„,  ..npeiuous  young  man       His   fiery  nature' 
Paul  Marchmont;  th^-y  went  on  lo  w„nder  .t//e///.,  <  chafed  .u^ainst  this  miseia-le  dHay,     k  wa>  -. 
sho  was  gome  to  m^rry  htm;  then  .hey  wo.  der.d  j  |,ard  to  have  to  wait  for  his  vengeance.     S.-uh 
ir/jt,   she   d.dii  t    marry    h.m.      !•  torn    this    the>  !  titv,,.g  i,,.   could   i-ciUTely  refrain  .from   nlantii.. 
cnange.l  thevenue.a..d  began  to  wonder  whether  ,  hjnr'^.lf  som-^wh-.e  in"  Paul   Marchmont  V   wavl 
Paul  iMaruhm.mi  meant  lo  mar.y  her-lhere  w.•.^  ;  with  tlxa  idea  of  a  hai.d-to-hand  slru  'git-  in  v\  hieh 
aness-niialdifferctice  in   tins  wondc  ">«  nt— and  /  eUhcr  he  or  his  en  my  must  peiish. 
T,ext,    why    Paul    Marchmont  didii  t   marry    her.!      n     ^i  .    ^.  ,■  .     V. 

And  by  this  time  Ouvia's  repuUtiou  w.^  .,vcr-  \  ""''^  he  wrote  the  arhst^  desperate  Ictu  r  o  - 
shadowed  hy  a  ternbie  cloud  which  had  arisen, !  "0""<^'"S  "oi  »«  ;>n  arch-plotter  and  villain,  call- 
no  hijcer  tlMU  a  man's  hand,  in  the  fir.t  conjee-  \  '"S  up'-"'  h'ni,  if  nis  evil  nature  was  redeemed  by 
turings  of  a  few  ig.on.nt  villagers.  n  °"'^  'P'"^'  '^f  "'a'>f';'CSS  t'.  hght  hiin  as  mtn  had 

People  made  it  their  business  first  to  wonder  < ''^'="  in  the  habit  of  fi-hting  onl>  a  lew  years  be- 
about  Mrs.  Marchmont,  and  tlien  lo  set  up  1 1,<  ir  i  .'"''''•  "''^''  ^ /'"^'^  "-"I  l""«  'es«  reason  than  these 
own  theories  about  her;  to  wl,ich  theor.e^  Ih.  y  p^°  "'^"  ^^'^  '^^'^  ^''<^""  ^"^'•"^'-  . 
clung  with  a  vtiifid  persistence,  forgeUing.  as*  ''  have  called  yo.i  a  villain  and  traitor;  in  India 
pe<ple  generally  d'>  forget,  that  there  might  be  |  ^'^  ^*^""*^'^  ^jould  tiillesch  other  forsmaller  woids 
some  liidilen  clew, somesecretkdy,  to  the  widow's  i^*"*"  those,' vs rote  the  siildier.  'But  I  have  no 
conduct,  for  want  of  which  the  cleverest  reason- 1  ^"^^>  to  lake  an\  advun'a};e  of  my  military  expe- 
ing  respecting  her  was  only  so  much  groping  in  rience.  1  nn)  be  a  ticitershot  than  you.  Ictus 
the  dark.        "  ;  have  only  one  pislol,  and  draw  lolsfor  it.     Let  us 

Kdward  Arundel  heard  of  the  cloud  which  i^re  at  each  o. Iter  across  a  dinner-tatilc.  Letnsdo 
shadowed  his  cousin's  name.  Her  father  heard  ^^"y  t'''"?  *•<»  '•'»at  we  bring  this  miserable  business 
of  it,  and  went  to  rcdionstrale  w^h  her,  implor-  ; '^  3"  end.' 

ing  her  to  come  to  him  at  Swampington,  and  to  ■  Mr.  Marchmont  read  this  letter  slowly  and 
leave  Marchm-nt  Towers  to  the  new  lord  of  the  ;  thoughtfully,  more  than  once;  smiling  as  he  read, 
mansion.  But  *he  only  answered  him  with'  'He's  getlitii:  tired,' thought  the  sitisi.  'Poor 
gloomy,  obstinate  reiteration,  and  almost  in  the  lyoung  man,  1  thought  he  would  be  the  first  to 
same  terna-^^sshe  had  answered  F.Jward  Arundel;  !grow  tired  of  this  soil  of  work.' 
declaring  that  she  would  stay  at  the  Towers  till  j  He  wrote  Edward  Arundel  a  long  letter;  a 
her  death;  that  she  would  never  leave  the  place  (friendly  but  rather  facetious  letter;  such  as  he 
till  she  was  carried  thence  in  her  coflin  !  might  have  written  to  a  child  who  had  asked  him 

Hubert  Arundel,  always  afraid  of  his  daughter, !  to  jump  over  the  moon.     He   ridiculfd  the    idea 
was  more  than  ever  affai«l  bf  her  now;  and  he  'of  a  duel,  as  tomething  utterly  Quixotic  and  ab- 
was  as  power  ess  to  ronlend  against  her  sullen  jsurd. 
determination,  as  ho  would  have  been  to  float  up 
the  stream  of  a  rushing  river. 

So  Olivia  was  talked  about. 


'I  anv  6ftcen  years  older  than  you,  my  dear  Mr. 
rundal,'  he  wrote,  'and  a  great  deal  too  old  to 


She  had  scared  !  Arundei,  ne  wroic,  'and  a  g 
away  all  visitors  after  the  ball  at  the  Towers  hy  <  have  any  inclination  to  fight  with  windmills;  or 
the  strangeness  of  her  manner  and  the  settled  ;  to  represent  the  wind-mill  which  a  high-spiriled 
gloom  in  her  face;  arid  she  lived  unvisited  and  ,  young  Quixote  may  choose  to  mistake  for  a  vil- 
alonc  in  the  gaunt  stony  mansion;  anl  people  '  lainous  knight, and  ran  his  hot  head  against  in  that 
said  that  Paul  Maichmont  was  almost  perpetually  /delusion.  I  am  not  offunded  with  you  for  calliiu 
with  her,  and  that  she  went  l<*  tacct  him  in  tl»e  j  me  bad  namcR,  and  I  take  your  anger  men  ly  as  r 
painting-room  by  the  rivs;.  kind   of  romantic    manner  you  have  of  showini: 

Edward  Arurdti   siickened.  of  his  wearisome / yoiH*  love   for  ray  poor  cousin,     W|  arc  rot  enc 
life,  and  lao  or.e  helped  him  to  endure  his  suffer- 'mies,  and  we  never  shall   be  enemies;  for  (  wil} 
itij^i.     Ikis  mother  wrote  to  him,  implorinj;  nim  i  never  suffe?  myself  to  he  so  foolish  a*  to  get  inta 
io  resign   himself  to  the   loss  of  his  jfoyRg  wife,;  a   passmn    with    a    brave    and    generous-ltejirtcd  • 
to  return  to   Dangerfield,   to  begl::,  &  new  eiitt- lyoung  soldier,  whoso  only  error  is  aa  unfortunate 
ence,  and  to  hjoi  out  the  memory  of  the  past.        i  hallucination  with  regard  to 

'You  have  done  all  that  ibn  most  devoted  affeo-i  •Your  very  humble  serTant, 

tion  could  prompt  you  to   do,'  Mrs.   Arundel  'Pacl  MAncHMOHX.' 


1C8  JOHN  MARCHMONT'S  LEGACi'. 

Edward  grouud  his  teetli  w  ith  savage  fury  as  he  (,  'I'm  sure  I'm  veiv  "sorry  for  you,  Mr.  Arundel,' 
read  this  letter.  '^Ihe  surgeon  said,  "looking,  not   at  Edward,  hut 

'Is  there  no  making  this  man  answer  for  his  in-  ^  about  and  around  )iim,  in  a  hopeless,  wanderipf;; 
famy  .''  he  muttered,  'is  there  no  way  of  making  ;;  manner,  like  some  hunted  animal  that  looks  far 
him  suffer?'  'and  near  for  a  ni^ans  of  escape  from  his  pursuer 

■; — I'm  very  snrry  for  you — and  for  all  your  trou- 

June  was  nearly  over,  and  the  year  was  M-car-sble — and  I  wm  when  I  attended  you  at  the  Black 
in?  round  to  the  anniversary  of  Edward "si  wed-'^  Bull — and  you  were  the  first  patient  I  ever;  had 
ding-dav,  the  anniversaries  of  triose  bright  days  ^(here — and  it  led  to  my  having  many  more — as  I 
'wliich  the  young  bride  and  bridegroom  had  loitered  I  may  sa) — though  that's  neiilier  here  nor  there. 
away  by  the  trout-streams  in  the  Hamp^^hire  mea-  ^  And  I'm  very  sorry  fory6u,and  for  the.poor  young 
dows,  when  some  most  unlooked-for  visitors  {  woman  loo — particularly  for  the  poor  young  wo- 
made  thgir  appearance  at  Kemberling  Retreat,  j;  man — and  I  always  tellPHulso — and — and  Paul — ' 

The  cottage  lay  back  behind  a  pleasantgardtn,  ^  And  at  this  juncture  Mr.  Weston  stopped  ab- 
and  was  hidden  from  the  dusty  high  road  by  a  j  ruptly,  as  if  appalled  at  the  hopeless  entangle- 
hedge  of  lilacs  aiid  laburnums  wliich  grew  within '^  ment  of  his  own  ideas,  and  wiih  a  brief  'Good 
the  wooden  fence.  It  was  Edward's  habit,  in  this  ;; evening,  Mr.  Arundel,'  shoi  off  in  the  direction 
hot  summer-time,  to  spend.a  great  deal  of  his  time  (of  the  Towers,  leaving  Edward  at  a  loss  to  under- 
in  the  garden;  walking  up  and  down  the  neglected  island  his  manner.  So,  on  this  mid-summer  eve- 
paths  with  a  cigar  in  his  moulh;  or  lolling  in  an '.niug,  the  soldit-r 'walk<'d  up  and  down  the  neg- 
easy-chair  on  the  lawn  readini!:  the  paptis.  Per- ;  Kcted  grass-pl(*t,  thinkinc  of  the  men  who  had 
haps  the  garden  whs  a  I  most  pi-cttier,  by  reason  of  i  been  his  comrades,  aid  of  tbe  career  which  he  had 
the  long  iieglect  which  it  had  suii'ercd,  than  it ;  aba'dotied  lor  the  love  of  his  hist  wife.  He  v  as 
would  have  been  if  kept  ii>  the  trimmest  order  by  <  aroused  from  his  gloomy  reverie  by  the  sound  of  a 
Ihp;  industrious  hands  of  si  skilful  gardener.  Every 'j  fresli  girlish  voice  railing  to  him  by  his  name, 
thing  grew  in  a  wild  and  wanton  iuxurian'-e,  that  ]     'Edward  !  Edward  !' 

was  very  beautiful  in  this  summer-time,  when  the  J  Who  could  there  be  in  Lincolnshire,  in  the  nan:e 
earth  was  gorgeous  with  fll  matuier  of  bK^ssoms.  ;;of  stli  that  is  miracii'ons,  with  t.lie  right  to  call  to 
Trailing  brandies  irom  the  espalierel  appie-lrees  ;■,  him  thus  by  his  Christian  name?  He  was  iMit 
hung  across  the  patliways,  intermingled  with '^  lonij  Jfcft  in  d(H.!bt.  While  he  was  asliing  himself 
roses  that  had  run  wild;  and  made  bits  that  a;; the  question,  the  same  feminine  voice  cried  out 
landscape-painter  might  have  delighted  to  copy. '^  again  . 

Even  the  weeds,  which  a  gardener  would  have  <  'Edv/anl!  Iildward !  Will  you  come  and  open 
looked  upon  in  horror,  were  beauilful.  The  wild  \  the  ga^e  for  me,  please  ?  Or  do  you  mean  to  keep 
convolvulus  flung  its  tendrils  into  fantastic  wreaths  ^  me  out  here  forever?' 

and  wild  festoons  about  the  bushes  of  svveet-bvier; ;,'  This  lime  Mr.  Aruridel  had  no  diiiiculty  in  rac- 
the  honey-suckle,  untutored  hy  the  piiining-lrnife,  ^ognixing  the  ffemHior  tones  of  iiis  sister  Letitia, 
mixed  its  tall  branches  with  seringa  aiid  clctEatis; ;,  whom  he  had  b«li<?ved ,  until  that  mc  mert.  to  be 
the  jasmine  that  crept  about  the  house  had  mount-  '<.  safe  under  the  rcaternai  wing  at  Dangerfield.^ — 
ed  to  the  very  chimney-pots,  and  strayed  in  through  s  And  lo  !  here  she  was,  on  horseback  at  his  own 
tiieopeii  windows;  even  the  stable-roof  was  half )  gate,  with  a  cavalier  hat  and  feathers  ovcrshadow- 
hiddenhy  hardy  monthly  roses  that  had  c'ambered  j'  ipg  hfrgivli  r  face,  and  with  another  young  Anrr- 
up  to  the  thatch.  But  the  young  s^oidier  look  very  •  zon  on  a  thorough-bred  chestnut,  ai:d  a  groom  on 
little  iutcrestin  thisdisorder/y  garden.  IJe  pined  ^a  thorough-bred  hay  ir-  (he  back-ground, 
to  be  far  away  in  the  thick  jungle,  or  on  the  j!  Edward  .'Arundel,  ulterly  confoundf-d  by  the  ad- 
burning  plain.  He  hated  Ihe  quiet  and  repose  of  J  veiit  of  such  visiters,  flung  away  his  oigar,  and 
an  existence  w'Tiich  seemed  little  better  than  the  ^  went  to  the  low  v/ooden  gate  beyond  whicii  his 
living  death  of  a  cloister.  ^Isister's  steed  v.as  pawi'  ?:  the  dusty  road,  inipatient 

The  sim  was  low  in  the  west  at  the  close  of  a'iof  this  stupid  deiay.  ai^d  eager  to  he  canieiiiigsta- 
long  mid-summer  day  when  Mr._  Arundel  strolled  ^  ble^vard  through  the  scented  summer  air. 
up  and  down  the  neglected   pathways,  backv.'ard  J     'Why,  Letitia  !'  cried  the  young  man,  'what,  in 
and  forward  amidst  the  long  taigied  grass  of  the  ^mercy's  name,  has  hrouaht  you  here?' 
lawn,  smoking  acinar,  and  brooding  over  his sor-^     Miss  Arundel  laughed   aloud   at  heV  brother's 
rows.  •  I  .  J  look  of  surprise.  -    '{'• 

He  was  beginning  to  despair.  Ho  had  defied  (  'You  drdn't  know  <f  Ws"'  in  Lincolnshire,  did 
Paul  Mirchmont,  and  no  good  had  come  of  his  j  you?' she  asked;  and, fttn  answered  her  own  qufs- 
dofignce.  He  had  ■.,  atched  him,  and  there  had  ;!lino  in  the  same  breath:  'Of  course  you  didn't, 
been  no  result  of  his  watching.  Day  after  day  he  |  becausei  I  wouldn't  let  mamma  tell  you  I  was 
hadwandered  down  to  thelonelv  pathway  by  the  <  coming;'  for  I  wanted  to  surprise  you,  you  know, 
river-side;  again  and  again  he  had  reconnoitred  j  And  i  think  I  h&ve  surpri'-ed  you,  haven't  I  ?  I 
the  boat-bouse,  only  to  hear  Paul  Marchmont'sJ  never  saw  such  a  scared-inoking  creature  in  all 
treble  voice  singing  scraps  out  of  modern  operas  \  my  life.  If  I  were  a  ghost  comins.'  here  in  the 
as  he  worked  at  his  easel;  or  on  one  or  two  occa-} gloaming,  you  couldn't  look  more  frightened  than 
sions  to  see  Mr.  George  VVeston,  the  surgeon,  or  >  you  did  just  now.  I  only  came  (he  day  before 
Lavinia  his  wife,  emerge  from  the  artist's  paint- ^yestesday,  and  I'm  staying  at  Major  Lawford's, 
ing  room.  j  twelve  miles  away  from  here;  and  this  is  Miss 

Upon  one  of  these  occasions  Edward  Arundel  1  Lawford,  who  was  at  school  with  me  at  Bath. — 
had  accosted  the  surgeon  of  Kemberling,  and  had!  You've  heard  me  talk  of  Belinda  Lawford,  my 
tried  to  enter  into  conversation  with  him.  Bui ;  dearest,  dearest  friend  ?  Miss  Lawford,  my  bro- 
Mf.  Weston  had  exhibited  such  utterly  hopeless)  ther;  my  brother,  Miss  Lawford.  Are  you  going 
stupidity,  mingled  with  a  very  evident  terror  of?  to  open  the  gate  and  let  us  in,  or  do  you  mean  to 
his  brother-in-law's  foe,  that  Edward  bad  been  I  keep  your  citadel  closed  upon  us  altogether,  Mr. 
fain  to  abandon  all  hope  of  any  assistance  fromj  Edward  Arundel?' 
thig  quarter.  \     At  this  juncture  the  young  lady  in  the  back- 


V     JOHN  M^lRCriMONT'S  LEGACY.  109 

ground  drew  a  little  nearer  to  her  friend,  and  mur-  awful  importance  which  ax^tiotw,  in  themselves 
mured  a  remonstrance  to  the  effect  thnt  it  was  *  most,  trivial,  assume  by  reason  of  their  conse- 
very  late,  and  that  they  were  expected  liome  be-;  qucoces;  and  when  the  action,  in  iti^elf  so  unim- 
foredark;  but  Miss  Arundel  refused  to  hear  the  ^  portant,  in  its  consequences  so  fatal,  has  been 
Toicc  of  wisdom.  in  any  way  a  dtviation  from  the  right,  how  bit- 

*Why,  we've  only  an  hour's  ride  back,'  she' terly  we  reproach  ourselves  for  ihat  false  step! 
cried;  "'and  if  it  should  be  dark,  which  1  don'i;  M  arn  so  glad  to  s<  c  vou,  Edward  I'  Miss  Arun- 
think  it  will  be,  for  it's  scarcely  dmk  all  night ,  del  exclaimed,  as  she  looked  about  her,  criticis- 
through  at  this  time  of  year,  we've  got  Hoskins  ;  ing  her  brother's  domain;  'but  you  don't  seem  a 
with  us,  and  Iloskins  will  take  care  of  us.  Won't' bit  glad  to  sec  me,  you  poor  j;looniy  old  dei-i-. 
you,  Iloskins?'  demanded  the  \oung  lady,  turn- J  And  how  much  better  you  look  than  you  di<^ 
ing  to  the  groom  with  a  most  insinuatingsmile.      jwhen  you  ltj"t  Dangerfleld  !  only  a    littie  care- 

Of  course  floskins  declared  that  he  was  reiuty ;  worn,  you  know,  still.  And  to  ttiink  of  your 
to  achieve  all  that  man  could  do  or  dare  in  llie  ;  coming  and  burying  yourself  here,  aw;iy  fioni  all 
defense  of  his  liege  ladies,  -or  something  pjch>  ;  the  people  who  love  )ou,  you  silly  old  darliisg! 
nearly  to  that  effect, but  delivered  in  a  vile  Lui-'  And  Belinda  kno\v>  the  sloiy.  and  she's  so  sorry 
col'nshire  patois  not  easily  rendered  in  printer's  ;  lor  you.  Ain't  you,  Linda  .'  I  call  her  Liida  for 
ink.  'short,  and   because  it's   prettier  than   7!i-linda,' 

Miss  Arundel  waited  f.>r  no  further  discu'^sion,  J  added  the  young  lady  aside  to  her  broiher,  and 
but  gave  her  hand  lo  her  broV^ier,  and  vaulted ,  wifh  a  conltmpiu>>us  emphasis  upon  the  tir^t  syl- 
lighlly  from  her  saddle.  Jableofhfr  friend's  name. 

Then,  of  course,  Edward  Arundel  i>(fered  his ;  Miss  Law  fp'd,  thus  abruptly  appealed  to, 
services  to  his  sister's  companion,  and  lien  f -r  i  blu.^hcd,  and>'aid  noihing. 

the  first  time  he  loo'ied  in  Belinda  Lawfrd's  face,:  If  Ivl^ard  Arundel  bad  been  told  that  any 
and  even  m  t'lat  one  fir.=l  ulance  saw  that  she  wr.s  ;  oOier  youtig  lady  was  accptainltd  wi'h  the  sad 
a  good  and  beautiful  crtaiure,  and  that  her  hair, '^  story  of  his  married  life,  I  .think  he  would  have 
of  which  she  had  a  great  quantity,  was  of  the  J  been  inclined  to  revolt  against  the  very  idea  of 
color  of  her  horse's  chestnut  coat;  that  her  eyes  (  hsr  ))ity.  But  allhoiigh  he  had  only  looked  once 
v.vrc.  tiip  bluest  he  had  ever  seen,  and  thathtr^nt  Belinda  Lawfoi-d,  that  one  lo-k  seemed  to 
c'leek?  were  like  tlii»,  neglected  loses  in  his  gar-^  have  told  him  a'great  deal.  lie  lelt  instinctively 
den.  He  held  out  his  band  to  her.  She  took  it  ^  that  she  was  as  good  as  the  wa'*  beautiful,  Jind 
Willi  a  frnnk  smile,  and  dismounted,  and  crime  in  J  that  her  pity  n^u'^l  be  a  most  genuine  and  lender 
wraong  thn.  grnss-grown  pathways,  amidst  the  con- f  emotion,  riol  lo  be  despised  by  the  proudest  man 
fusion   of  trailing  branches   and  bright  garden-:  upon  earth. 

llowei's  growing  wild.  The  tv/o  ladles  s,eated  themselves  upon  a  di- 

i.>pidated  rustic  seat  amidst  the  long  grass,  and 

In  that  moment  began  the  jeco.nd  volume  of  ;Mr.  Arunde!  sat  in  the  low  basket-chair  in  which 
Edward  .Vrundcl"-?  lifc.  The  first  volume  Jind  he  was  wont  to  lounge  a  great  deal  of  his  lime 
hegu>   upon  the  Christmas  niglt  on  which  the   away., 

bov  of  seventicn  went  to  see  '.he  pantcmlme  at       'Why  don't  yon  have  a  gardener,  Ned  .=  ' Lctilift 
Orury  Line  Theatre.    Tiie  old  story  had  been  a  'Arundel  asked,  after  looking  rather  coiitempiu- 
long,  s»d  story,  full   of  tcndernf-s.e 'and  pathos,  ^ou.'ly  at  the  flowery  Iuxuri;ir>ce  around  her. 
l-ut'wiih  a  crutl   and  dismal  tnditg.     Tlie  new  •      Her  brother  shrugged. liis  shouldtrs  wilh  a  des- 
storv  began  to-ni^hl,  in  this  fading  western  sun- '  pondcnl  gesture. 

■•hine,  in  this  atmo.'phcre  of  balmy  perfume,!'  'Why  should  I  take  any  care  of  the  place .='  he 
amidst  these  dew-laden  garden-do  vers  growing  ;  said.  'I  only  took  it  because  it  was  near  the  spot 
wild.  •       'where — where  my  poor  pi  rl — a  here  I  wanted  to 

;  be.     1  have  no  object  in  beautifying  it.  1  wish  to 

But,  as  I  think  I  observed  before  at  the  outset;  Ileavm  I  c(»u!d  leave  it  and  go  back  to  Jndia.' 
of  vhis  story,  we  are  nrely  oiirselrcR  aware  of;'  He  turned  his  face  eastward  as  he  spoke,  and 
the  comnfiiccmcMt  of  any  new  section  in  on'r' (he  two  girls  saw  that  half-eager,  half  dtspairifig 
li^es.  Wi-  look  back  afterward,  and  vronder  to  yejirmn.;  iliat  was  alway>  visible  in  his  (a<e  when 
see  upon  what  an  ir.significant  incident  the  fate  of;  he  looked  to  the  tast.  It  was  over  jot  dt-r,  thc^ 
after-years  depinded.  ^  f^rene  i«f  strife,  the  red  field  of  Klnry,.onty  sej.a- 

'If  !  had  gone  d.iwn  Piccadilly  instead  of  tak- :  rati  d  from  him  hy  n  pach  <if  purple  ocfan.  and  a 
ing  a  short  cut  ncriss  the  G-een  Park  tlie  d;iy  I  ;s;rip  <T  >ellow  sand.  It  was  joi.d.-r  He  could 
walked  from  Brompton  to  Charing  Cross,  |  almost  feel  ih«  hot  blasr  of  Hie  burning  air.  He 
should  not  have  met  the  woman  I  adore,  an-l  who  ;  cnild  almost  hear  the  sin  uts  of  victory.  And  he 
has  hfii-p-cked  me  so  cruelly  for  the  last  fifteen  [was  a  pri  o-er  here,  bound  by  a  sacred  duty— by 
years,'  says  Brown.  a  duty  which  he  owed  to  the  dead. 

•If  I  had  not  invit.'d  Lord  Claude  Fitz  Tudor;  'Major  l.awford — .VI;.j<>r  Lawford  is  Belinda's 
to  dirner.  with  a  vifw  to  mortifying  R'binson  of ;  papa;  .'Wd  Foot — Major  Lawford  knew  that  we 
the  War-Office  by  the  exhi'iilion  of  an  ari'to- ;  were  coming  here,  and  h«  heggt  d  m-  to  ask  you 
cratic  acquaintance,  that  w-etched  story  of  do-  to  dinner;  but  I  said  )on  wouldn't  come,  for  I 
mestic  shame  and  horror  might  never  have  cone  j  knew  you  had  shut  yourself  mil  of  all  society  — 
the  round  ol  the  papers;  Sir  Cr»^sswell  Crcsswell  jthouiih  the  Major's  the  dearest  creature,  and  the 
might  never  hr^vc  been  called  on  to  decide  upon  Grange  is  a  most  delightful  place  to  stay  at.  1 
a  ca!»e  in  which  I  was  the  petitioner;  and  a  mis-  was  down  here  in  the  inid---ummerholMla»s  once, 
eroble  woman,  now  dragging  out  a  blighted  life  in  you  Umow,  while  you  v/ere  in  India.  But  I  give 
a  tawdty  lodging  at  Dippjie.  might  still  he  a  p'ire-the  message  as  the  Major  gave  it  to  me;  and 
English "mairtm  a  pro^id  and  happy  mother  I'says  iyou 're  to  come  to  dinner  whenever  you  like. ' 
Jones,  whose  wife  ran  away  from  him  with  the;  Edward  Arundel  murmured  a  few  polite  words 
younger  son  of  a  duke.  iof  refusal.     No;  he  saw  no  society;  he   was  in 

It  is  only  after  the  fact  that  we  recognize  the  *  Lincolnshire    to    achieve    a  certain   objecti  he 


110 


JOHN  MARCHMOXT'S  LEGAClf. 


shouM  remain  there  no  longer  than  was  neces- J  Inrlian  war,  while  the  two  girls  roamed  about  the 
sary  111  larder  for  tiim  to  ilo  s...  jgardf-n  among  the  r.ii'es  and  butlciflies,  tear!- g 

Mnd  you  don't  even  say  that  you're  glad  tosee;  the  skirts  of  their  riding-liabi's  every  now  and 
me  'exclaimt-d  Miss  Arundel,  with  an  i.ffendcd  '  then  amonsj;  the  briers  and  gooseberry  bu-hes.  It 
air''iiioui;h  it's  S'X  niuiuhs  since  you  were  Idst;  was  sr;ir<eiy  strange  alter  this  visit  ihat  Edward 
at  'UuiJgerti  1.1  !  Upon  my  woid  jou're  a  nicej  Arundel  should  consent  to  Hccept  Major  Law- 
brolh'er  lor  an  lUilorlunale  girl  to  waste  her  at-Jf  rds  invitation  to  name  a  day  for  dining  at  the 
feciioiis  upon!'  jGr.»n<e;  he  con'd   n(it   with   a  very   good  grace 

Ld>v;ird  smiled  faintly  at  his  sister's  com- '  have  refused.  And  yet— and  jet— it  .»et m»d  to 
_I^jijI_  '    ]h\'u   alii'ost  a   trea-on   ngau.st  his   lo'^t  love,  hi.^ 

'1  ain  very  glad  to  see  you,  Lelitia.'he  said;  poor  pensive  Marj- whose  fare,  wiih  ihe  very 
'very    very  glad.'  Jook   it  had  worn  uponthat  last  day,  was  ever 

Ai'd  indeed  ih'^  young  hermit  coftild  not  but)  present  wim  him — to  mix  wilh  happy  penp^c  who 
tu  himself  Uiat  ihose  two  innocent  y»)uni  '  ha  1  nev»  p  known  sorrow,     lint  he  weni  to  the 


tlie  young  Idd)  — whom  he  tiad  been  intimate  wiih  ^  Belinda  Lavvford;  vviih  Ijelinda  Lawl'vid  who 
from  a  very  eaily  period  .ot  her  exi-leiice,  and 'knew  his  story  and  was  sorry  f >r  him.''  He  al- 
hail  carried  upon  hi-  slutildcr  s  »me  (ifleen  jears  ;,  wnys  icniemhered  ilia',  as  h-  looked  at  hpr  bright 
l,elorc-- undf r  the  pretense  of  nring.ng  v»ine  foi  ;  face,  whose  var*ing  expr'ssion  gave  pe'-petual 
the  visitor.-; -and  the  slable-lad  had  bitii  sent  to  a  )  evidence  of  a  compassionate  and  sympathetic 
distant  corner  *'f  tt.e  ginieii  10  search  fur  siraw- '  nature. 

berries  lor  I. icir  refies'iment  Even  ihp  solitary  J  'if  my  pooLf  darling  had  liad  thi<»  giil  for  a 
n  aid-servant  iiad  crept  into  thf  jiai lor  fronting  I  friend,' he  ih  uglit.  soincUtiits, 'how  much  hap- 
llie  lav/ii,  and  jia.l  siiro'nded   herseli  behuid  the  J  pier  she  might  have  been  !' 

■wiiid-iwcurl.iins,  wieiice  sue  could  peep  out  ai  J  1  daresay  iheie  liave  been  many  livelier  wo- 
the  t>vo  Amazons,  and  glddJen  her  ejes  with  the  J  men  in  tiu.s.  vvorjil  ihan  J5elii.da  La"  ('•■nl;  many 
si^nt  of  someihin."'  ihai  was  joU'giHiuJ  bfaotilut.  :'  women  whose  faOes.considereii  am  lical  y ,  c  amc 
"iijtiiie  \oung  ladles  Would  noi  stop  to  iiruik  {  n»-a  rer  pet  feclion;  many  noes  ciioie  exquisiicly 
any  wmu,  though  Mr!  Mornson  infoimtd  Leiilia  i  cinsciecj,  and  scores  of  mouth.s  bearing  a  cio-er 
that  the  s'neiry  was  from  the  Dangertield  cellar,  ^  aflinity  to  Cufud's  bow;  but  1  duubt  if  any  face 
and  had  been  sent  to  .viasler  Edward  oy  his  Ma; ;!  wa- ever  more  pleasant  lo  look  tiiipn  than  the 
nor  to  eat  any  st  awliernes,  though  tne  stable- ;!  face  of  this  blooming  Knglish  maiden.  She  had 
boy  who  made  the  air  odoroirs  wiih  the  scent  ol  J  a  beauty  that  is  sometimes  wanting  in  perfect 
hay'and  oais,  brought  a  lilUe  heap  of  freshly- p'^ces,  wnd  lacking  which  the  most  splendid  lore- 
gathered  fruit  pi'cd  upon  a  cabbage-kaf,  and  sur- ^  liness  will  pall  ai  last  upon  eyes  thai  have  giown 
mounted  bv  a  tampant  caterpillar  of  tne  wuuii_»  '.  weary  of  adinirioz;  she  had  a  charm  for  want  of 
species,  i'liey  cuuid  not  stay  any  long-er,  the)  ^  h  hicli  the  most  rigidiy  classic  profiles,  the  most 
botii  declared,  lest  iheie  should  be  tenor  at  Law-;;  exijuiiitel}  si  .tuesque  fa^  es,  have  seemed  colder 
fi.rd  GraiiH-e  because  of  their  absence.  So  the) ;!  and  haider  ihan  the  marble  it  was  their  highest 
went  nacU  to  the  gaJe,  escorted  by  Edward  and;;  merit  to  resi-inbie.  She  bad  the  beauty  of  good- 
his  confidential  servant,  and  after  Lctitia  had  >  nes^,  and  to  admire  her  was  to  do  homage  to  the 
given  her  brother  a  kiss,  which  resounded  almost'  purest  and  highest  attributes  of  womanhood.  It 
like  the  report  of  a  pistol  through  the  still  even-;;  was  not  only  that  her  pretty  liill?  nose  was 
ing  air,  tiie  two  ladies  mounted  their  horses,  and '^  straight  and  well-shaped,  that  her  lips  were  rosy 
canlertd  away  in  the  twilight.  ^red,  that  her  eyes   were  bluer  than  the  summer 

'I  sh»ll  comb  and  see  you  again,  Ned,' Miss ',  heavens,  and  her  chestnut  hair  tinged  with  the 
Arundel  cried,  as  she  shook  the  reins  upon  her^goldeii  light  of  a  setting  sun;  above  and  beyond 
horse's  neck;  'and  so  will  Belinda — won't  you,;;  such  commonplace  beauties  as  these,  the  beau- 
Belinda.^'"     '  ]  '•'^^^  "^^  tenderness,  truth,  faith,  earnestness,  hope. 

Miss  Lawford's  reply,  if  she  spoke  at  all,  was  J  and  charity,  were  enthroned  upon  her  broad  white 
nuite  inaudible  amidst  ihc  clattering  of  the  horses';  brow,  and  crowjjed  her  queen  by  right  divine  of 
hoofs  upon  the  hard  high-road.  .  ;  womanly    perfection.      A    loving    and    devoted 

'■  .    ,      {daughter,  an  affectionate  sister,  a  true  and  faith- 

Jful  friend,  an  uiitiring  benefactiess  to  the  poor,  a 

^^^  'gentle   mistress,  a    well-bred   Christian    lady;  in 

'every  duty  and  in  every  position  she  bore  out  and 

CHAPTER  XXVn.  /sustained  the  impression   which  her  beauty  made 

<  on  the  minds  of  those  who  looked  upon  her.    She 
ONE    MORE    SACR.IFICK.  S  was  Only  nineteen  years  of  age,  and   no  sorrow 

Letitia  Arundel  kept  her  word,  and  carhe  i  had  ever  altered  the  brightness  of  her  nature, 
verv  olten  to  Kemberling  Retreat;  sometimes  on  (She  lived  a  happy  life  with  a  father  who  was 
horseback  sometimes  in  a  little  pony-carriage;  >  proud  of  her,  and  with  a  mother  who  resembled 
sometimes'  accompanied  by  Belinda  Lawlord,  i  her  in  almost  every  attribute.  She  led  a  happy 
BomeUmes  accompanied  by  a  younger  sister  of  >  but  a  busy  life,  and  did  her  duty  to  the  poor  about 
Beli'ida's  as  chtstnut-baired  and  blue-eyed  as  ,  her  as  scrupulously  as  even  Olivia  had  done  in 
Belinda  herself  but  at  the  school-roOm  and  ':  the  old  days  at  Swampington  Rectory;  but  in 
bread  and-butter  period  of  life,  and  not  particu-  .such  a  genial  and  cheerful  spirit  as  to  win,  not 
Uriv  interesting  Major  Law  ford  came  one  day  S  cold  thankfulness,  but  heart-lelt  love  and  devo- 
wltti  his  daughter  and  her  friend,  and  Edward  |  lion  from  all  who  partook  of  her  benefits. 
•Tnd  the  half-pay  officer  walked  together  up  and  ;  Upon  the  Egyptian  darkness  of  Edward  Arua- 
down  the  grass-plot,  smoking  and' talking  of  the  ;  del's  life  this  girl  arose  as  a  star,  and  by-and-by 


JOHN  MARCHMONT'S  LEGACY. 


Ill 


all  the  horizon  brightened  under  her  influence. 
The  snldler  had  been  very  little  in  the  society  of 
women.  His  mother,  his  sister  Letitia,  his  cousin 
/)livia,  and  John  Marchmont's  c:entle  daughter, 
were  tlie  only  women  wlioni  he  hwd  ever  known 
in  the  familiar  freedom  of  domestic  intercouri^e; 
and  he  trusted  himself  in  the  presence  of  this 
oeautiftil  and  noble-minded  girl  in  iitler  i^noranrc 
of  any  danger  to  hi*  own  peace  of  mind,  lie 
suffered  himself  to  be  happy  at  Lawford  Granire; 
and  in  those  quiet  hours  whicii  he  spent  there  h< 
put  away  lii.s  old  life,  and  forgol  the  stern  pur- 
pose that  alone  held  him  it  prisoner  in  ICngland. 

But  when  he  went  back  to  his  lonely  dwelling- 
place  he  reproached  himself  bitterly  for  that 
which  he  considered  a  treason  against  bis  love. 

*  Wliat  riiiht  have  1  to  ho  happy  among  these 
people.'*  he  thoughl;  'what  right  liave  1  to  tali< 
life  easily,  even  for  an  hour,  while  my  daronir 
lies  in  her  unhalhiwcd  grave,  and  (be  man  w|  o 
drove  her  to  her  death  remains  unpunished.'  1 
will  never  go  to  Lawford  Grange  again.' 

It  sfemrd.  however,  as  if  every  body,  excep* 
Belinda,  was  in  a  plot  against  this  idl<-.  >oldier 
for  ••ometimes  Letitia  coaxed  him  to  ride  baci 
with  her  after  one  of  her  visits  to  Kemberlini 
Retreat,  and  very  often  the  major  him-clf  in- 
sisted, in  a  hearty  military  fashion,  upon  tin 
young  man's  t.kmi:  the  empty  >-eal  in  Ins  floL- 
cart,  to  be  driv'-n  over  to  llic  Grange.  IMwaid 
Anmdel  hnd  never  once  mentioned  Mary's  namt 
to  any  m  mbcr  of  this  hospitable  and  friend); 
family.  They  were  very  good  lo  him.  and  wti. 
prcp.tred,  be  knew,  to  sympathize  with  him;  bu- 
hf  could  not  bring  bimsi-lf  to  talk  <if  his  los 
wife.  The  Ihoug'il  of  tb^it  ra~b  and  dcs|ieral> 
act  which  had  ended  her  short  life  was  loo  cruel 
to  him.  He  would  not  speak  of  b«.r.  becau'e  ht 
would  Imvc  h;id  to  (il>-ad  excuses  for  thai  oin 
yuill*  act:  a"d  her  im  i^e  lo  him  was  so  slainlcs' 
and  pure  that  he  could  not  besr  to  plead  for  hn 
as  for  ;i  sinner  who  had  nerd  of  m»-n's  pity  rati.ei 
than  a  chiiin  to  Itieir  tcveiciice. 

'Her  life  bad  been  so  sinless,'  he  cried,  some 
limes;  'and  l<»  liiink  that  it  should  have  i  nd^f' 
in  sin!  If  I  could  f-tirivc  Paul  Matclinionl  foi 
all  the  r.'st.  if  i  could  forgive  tiim  for  my  loss  oi 
her,  I  wr.uld  never  forgive  i.jm  for  that. ' 
IP^Trie,  young  widower  kept  silence,  Iherefoie, 
upon  the  mbj'^ct  which  occupied  so  l.Tirge  n  shau 
of  his  ttiougl  t«,  wbicli  «as  every  fl  .y  and  cvei-; 
niaht  I'ic  ibeinc  of  b  s  most  earne-t  prayer.-;  ari<; 
M.iry's  name  was  never  spoken  in  his  preseiict 
a  I  [>:i«ford  Gr;<nse. 

liul  in  Ldwa'd  Arundel's  absence  the  two  girl- 
sometimes  l.i|i<<vl  of  tbi'«  sad  storv. 

'Do  you  really  think,  Letitia,  that  yoin 
brother**  wife  committed  micidc.-'  Belindii 
asked  her  friend. 

•Ob,  as  for  that,  there  can't  be  any  doubt  about 
it  df ar.' aii'wcred  Mi»s  Arui  del.  who  was  of  a 
lively,  not  to  say  a  flippant  disposition,  and  h.ii! 
no  very  great  reverence  for  solenm  ti.ings;  Mbe 
poor  dear  creature  drowned  herse'f.  J  think  she 
must  have  been  a  little  wrong  in  herhesd.  I  'lo-i'i 
iiay  so  to  Ivlward,  you  know,  iit  hast,  i  did  *a_\ 
SO  once  when  be  was  at  Mai^gprlield,  :in'l  h<*  flew 
into  nn  awfol  passion,  and  called  n^e  hardhearted 
and  cruel,  and  all  stiru  of  shocking  lhin.!S;  so  o 
course  I've  never  siid  so  since.  I^iit  rrally,  th» 
poor  dear  tliin^^'s  goings-on  '-ere  so  recenlric: 
first  she  ran  away  from  her  »tcp-molhcr,  anr" 
went  and  hid  herself  in  a  horrid  lodfuinp;  and 
fhnn  ihe  married   Edward  si   a  nastv  rhurrh  in 


Lambeth,  without  so  much  as  a  wedding-dresi,  or 
a  creature  to  give  her  away,  or  a  cake,  or  cards, 
or  any  thing  Christian-like;  and  then  she  lan 
away  again;  and  as  her  father  had  been  a  super — 
what's  it's  name.'  a  man  who  carries  banneis  in 
pantomimes,  und  all  that — 1  dare  say  she'd  seen 
Mr.  Macready  as  Hamlet,  and  had  Ophelia's 
death  in  her  head  when  she  ran  down  to  the 
river-side  and  diowned  herself.  I'm  sure  it's  a 
very  sad  story,  ar.d  of  couise  I'm  awfully  sorry 
for  Edward.' 

The  vf.ung  lady  said  no  more  than  this;  but 
Belinda  brooded  over  the  story. of  that  early  mar- 
riage—  the  stolen  honey-moon,  the  sudden  part- 
ing. How  dearly  they  must  have  loved  each 
other,  the  young  bride  and  bridegroom,  absorbed 
in  their  own  happiness,  and  fiugelliil  of  all  the 
outer  world!  She  pictured  Edward  Arundel's 
lace  as  it  must  have  been  before  caie  ami  sorrow 
had  blotted  out  the  biightest  attribute  of  his 
heauty.  She  ihouglit  of-  him,  and  pitied  him, 
with  such  tender  ivrnpalhy,  that  by-and-by  the 
liio  ght  of  this  )0ung  man's  sorrow  sccn)ed  lo 
hut  ajniost  every  idea  comp'etcly  out  of  lier 
nind.  She  went  aboiit  all  her  duties  still,  chcer- 
I'lilly  and  pleasantly,  as  it  was  her  lialure  to  do 
every  thii'g;  hut  the  zesl  with  winch  she.  had  pcr- 
ormed  each  loving  office,  each  act  of  swett 
)eticv<dence.  seemed  lost  to  her  rio-v. 

Remember  that  sle  "as  a  simple  country  dam- 
sel, leading  a  quiet   life,  wfn  se   peace  ul  course 

as  almost  as  calm  ajul  uneveutle^s  us  the  exist- 
nee  of  a  cloister;  a  life,  so  tpiiet  that  a  decent ly- 
viiiten  romance  from  Ihe  J^wanipin;:ton  bool- 
■,lub  w,\^  a  thing  to  be  lnoked  loiw;!iil  to  with 
Hii[iai  ienee,  to  rtad  with  hre;itlilcss  exciicmei  t, 
imi  to  bio(;d  upon  afterwaid  for  months  Wis 
•  t  strange,  iheii.  that  this  romance  in  real  liie, 
bis  sweet  siory  of  love  and  devotion,  with  its 
ad  climax — this  story,  the  scene  of  which  J:  y 
'  viil.iii  a    few    miles    ol'   her    home,  the    heio  <f 

liich  was  her  falt.er's  conslait  puest — was  it 
-irange  that  this  sti  ry,  whose  siuhest  ciiaiiii  w.  s 
IS  liiilh.  should  make  :i  strong  oupre-sion  iijin 
Lhe  mind  ol  an  innocent  and  i. ri worldly  wonidi:, 
mil  that  day  by  day  and  Ikuic  by  hour  she  shoiiV, 
id  uncoii-cir)usl>  to  I  er-c  1'  feel  a  stronger  iulci- 
■St  ill  ihc  f;cro  of  the  t..le.' 

She  was  in'crcsti  d  in  him.  Alas!  Ihc  truth 
niisi  be  set  di»wn,  even  it'  it  has  to  be  in  the 
jiain  old  c(unm<Miphice  words  She  Jill  m  Icif 
'citk  him.  I5iit  bive  in  this  innoceiit  and  womaiily 
i-jiurn  was  so  d  Ifert  nt  a  sentiment  to  that  which 
ind  rag<:J  ill  ^)livia's  stormy  bnasl  that  even  she 
» lio  felt  il  wa<  uru-onsei.  us  of  ils  gradual  birth, 
a  was  noi ';in  Adam  at  its  bnib,'  b\-tlii-by.  It 
lid  n-it  leap,  Alincrva-like,  from  the  brain;  fori 
ii|ic»e  that  love  is  bom  ol  the  brain  oftem  r  llian 
of  the  heart,  being  a  r-trange  coinpound  of  faiicy 
and  folly,  ideuli'y,  veiieiation,  and  deliis'on.  il 
came  rather  like  ihe  gradual  dawniiur  of  a  sum- 
mer's morning — first  a  Ml  tie  patch  of  liuhi.  far 
away  in  the  east,  very  faint  ai  d  feeble;  then  a 
slow  widening  of  the  rosy  brightness;  :yid  at  last 
•I  great  b  aze  of  splendor  over  all  tha  wid'h  of 
he  v.ist  beaveno.  And  thru  vii'is  Lawford  grew 
lOore  reserved  i  i  her  intercourse  with  her  friend's 
iirolher.  Her  frank  go'  d  nature  gave  place  to  a 
timid,  shrinking  ba«lifiilness  thai  made  her  len 
limes  more  fascinnlilip  t'l-'U  •^hc  had  be<n  before, 
."ilic  was  so  very  ynnnp,  atid  had  mixed  so  liiii'- 
>ith  the  world,  ti  at  she  had  jet  lo  Jcarn'ihc 
I'omedy  of  l.fe  She  had  yet  to  learn  to  smile 
when  she  was  sorry,  r>r  to  look  sorrowful  when 


112 


JOHN  MARCHMONT'S  LEGACY. 


she  was  pleased,  as  prudence  migM  dictate;  to 
blush  at  will,  or  to  grow  pale  when  it  was  politic 
to  sport  the  lily  tint      She  was  a  natural,  artless, 
spontaneous  creature;  and  she  was  utterly  power- 
less to   conceal    her   emotions,  or  to    pretend  a 
sentirat-nt   she  did  not   feel.     She    blushed    rosy 
red  when  Edward  Arundel  spoke  t'>  her  suddenly. 
She  bci rayed  herself  by  n  hundred  S'gns;  mutely^ 
conCcised    tier  love  almost  ns   arUcs-ly  as   Mary^ 
had  revealed  her-  afft-ction  a  twelvemonth  before.  / 
Uiit  if  Edward  saw  this  he  ;iave  no  sign  of  bavin:;  $ 
niude  the  discovery.     Hrs  voii-e,  peihips,  grew  a  j; 
litlle  lower  and  sofier  in  its  tone  when  he  spoke  ; 
to'H'lindj;  but  ttiere  was  a   sail  cadence  in  that  ; 
low  voice  wiiich  was  too  mournful  for  the  accent; 
of  a  lover.     Sometimes,  when  his  eyes  rested  for  ', 
a  ino'Hf nt  on  the  girl's  blushing  face,  a  shadow  ■, 
would    darken    his   o«n,  and   a    faint  quiver  ('f-; 
emotion  stir  his  lower  lip;  blit  it  is  impossible  to,' 
say  what  this  emotion  may  have  been.     Belinda;; 
hoped  nothing,  expected  nothing.     1  repeat  that  • 
she  was  nnconscions  of  the   nature  of  her  own  / 
feeling;  and  she  had  never  for  a  moment  thoirght  1 
of  Edward  others ise  than  as  a  man  who  would  / 
go  to  his  grave  failliful  'to  that  snd   love-story  ; 
which  bad   blighted   the  promise   of  his  youth.  J 
She    never  thought   of    him   otherwise   than    as  \ 
Mary's  constant  mour  ler;  she  never  hoped  that  \ 
time   would  alter  his   feelings  or   wear  out  hi*  i 
c:^ristancy;  ye.t  she  loved  him,  notwithstanding,    ii 

All  ihrou-h  .July  and  August  the  young  man  | 
visited  at  the  Grange,  and  at  the  beginning  of. | 
September  l^iCtiiia  Arundel  went  back  to  Dan- j 
gerlield.  But  even  then  Kdward  vvas  sHll  a  fre-  j 
quent  guest  at  Major  Lawford's,  for  his  enthusiasm  ; 
itpon  all  military  matters  had  made  him  a  ver} 
great  favorite  with  the  o!d  officer.  But  toward 
the  end  of  September  Mr.  Arundel's  visits  sud-( 
denly  were  restricted  to  an  occasional  call  upon  i 
the  Major;  he  left  off  dining  at  the  Grange;  his? 
evening  rambles  in  the  garden  with  Mrs.  Law*-; 
ford  and  her  blooming  aaughters — Belinda  had  j 
no  less  than  four  blue-eyed  sisters,  all  more  or  j 
less  resembling  herself — ceased  altogether,  to  the  '. 
wonderment  of  every  one  in  the  old-fashionec'  j 
country-house.  •  , | 

Edward  Arundel  sh.ut  out  the  new  light  whicl  I 
had  dawned  ujion  his  life  and  withdrew  into  thi  ] 
darknes'^.  He  went  back  to  the  stagnant  nio-  / 
notony,  the  hopeless  despondency,  the  bitter  re  i 
grst,  of  his  old  existence.  I 

'While  my  sister  was  at  the  Grange  I  had  ai  j 
rxcuse  fur  g  ung  there,'  he  said  to  himself,  sternlj  .  ;! 
'I  have  no  excuse  now.'  •  J/ 

But  Ihc  oid  monotonous  life  was  somehow  oi  "/ 
other  a  great  deal* more  difficult  to  bear  than  ii  ;! 
had  been  before.  Nothing -seemed  to  interesi  ;! 
the  young  man  now.  Even  the  records  of  Indian  / 
fvictorie*;  were  'flat,  stale,  and  unprofitab'e.'  He  '/ 
twondercd  at  the  remembrance  with  what  eager  ;' 
impatience  he  had  once  pined  for  the  coming  of ;' 
the.  newspapers,  with  what  frantic  haste  he  bad  [^ 
devoured  every  syllivljle  of  the  Indian  news.  All ;' 
his  old  fjelingi  seemed  to  have  gone  away,  leav-;i 
ing  nothing  in  his  mind  but  a  blank  waste,  a  / 
weary  sickness  of  life  and  all  belonging  to  it  - 
Leaving  nolhingeise — positively  notliing.^  'No!"> 
he  answcrd,  in  reply  to  theue  mute  questions  off. 
iii-'  own  spirit — 'no/  he  repealed  doggedly,  'nolh-/ 
ing.'  / 

It  was  strange  to  find  what  a  blank  was  left  in  / 
his  life  by  reason  of  his  abandonment  of  the  ^ 
Grange.  It  seemed  as  if  he  bad  suddenly  retired  ) 
from  an  existence  full  of  pleasure  and  delight^ 


into  the  gloomy  solitude  of  La  Trappe.  And 
yet  what  was  it  that  he  had  lost,  after  all .'  A 
quiet  dinner  at  a  country-house,  and  an  evening 
spent  half  in  the  lealy  siiei  ce  of  an  old-fashione§ 
garden,  half  in  a  pleasant  dran  ing-room  among 
a  group  of  well-bred  girl?,  and  only  enlivened 
hy  simple  English  ballads  or  ptn'ive  melodies  by 
\1'  ndeNsohn.  It  was  not  much  toioreiio,  surely. 
And  yet  Edward  Arunde.l  feit,  ll^  sacrifiring  these 
new  acquaintance  at  the  Grange  to  the  st^rn  pur- 
pose of  his  life,  almost  as  if  he  had  rLsigued  a 
second  captaincy  for  Mary's  sake. 


CHAPTER  XXVIIL 

THE     child's     voice      IN      THE      PAVILION     BY     THE 
WATER. 

The  year  wore  slowly  on.  Lelitia  Arundel 
wrote  very  long  letters  to  her  fiiend  and  ci  nfi- 
dante,  B.-linda  Lawfud,  and  in  each  letter  df- 
'iianded  particular  intelligence  of  her  brother's 
doings'.  Had  he  been  to  the  Grange.'  how  had 
Me  looked.'  what  had  he  talked  about.'  etc.  etc. 
3ut  to  these  questions  iMiss- Lawfvrd  could  only 
return  oue  monotonous  repi} ;  Mr.  Arundel  had 
not  been  to  ihc  Grange;  or  Mr.  Arundel  had 
called'  on  papa  ontJ  nirrning.  but  had  oiily  .staid  a 
quarter  of  an  hour,  and  had  not  been  seen  by  any 
female  member  of  the  family. 

The  year  wore  slowly  on.  Edward  endured 
his  self-appointed  solitiuie,  and  wsiled,  waited,- 
vi'ith  a  vengeful  hatred  forever  brooding  in  his 
breast,  for  the  day  of  retribution.  The  year  '- 
v/ore  on,  and  the  anniversary  of  the  day  upon 
v/hich  Mary  ran  away  from  the  Towers,  the  17t! 
of  October,  came  at  last.  \ 

Paul  Marchmont  had  declared  his  intention  of 
taking  possession  of  the  Tower.s  upon  the  day 
following  this.  The  twel^remonth's  prob-ation 
which  he  had  imposed  upon  himself  had  expired; 
every  voice  was  loud  in  praise  of  his  conscit-n- 
'ious  and  honorable  coi^duct  He  had  grown 
ery  popular  during  his  residence  at  Kemberling. 
Tenant  i'armers  looked  forward  to  halcyon  days 
mder  his  dominion;  to  leases  .renewed  on  favor- 
able terms;  to  repairs  liberally  ex- ci.ttd;  to  every 
liing  that  is  delightful  between  landloid  and 
enant.  Edward  Aritndel  heard  all  this  through 
lis  faithful  servitor,  Air.  Morrison,  and  chafed 
litterly  at  the  news.  Ttiis  tr.^itor  was  to  be 
liippy  and  prosperous,  and  to  have  the  good  word 
)f  honest  men;  wiide  Mary  lay  in  her  unhal- 
lowed grave,  and  peaple  shrugged  their  shoulders, 
half  compassionately,  half  contemptuously,  as 
'hey  spake  of  the  mad  heiress  who  had  committed 
suicide 

Mr.  Morrison  brought  his  master  tidings  of  all 
Paul  Marchmont's  doings  about  this  time.  He 
was  to  take  possession  of  the  Towers  on  the  19th. 
He  had  already  made  several  alteration.'^  in  the 
arrangement  of  the  different  rooms.  Fie  ha;] 
ordered  new  furniture  from  Swampington — 
another  tunn  would  have  orduicd  it  from  London; 
but  Mr.  Marchmont  was  bent  upon  being  popular, 
and  did  not  despise  even  the  good  ©pinion  of  a 
local  tradesman — and  by  several  other  acts,  in- 
significant enough  in  themselves,  had  asserted 
his  ownership  of  the  man.sion  whici)  had  bee* 
the  airy  castle  of  Mary  Marchmont's  d;iy-dreams 
ten  years  before. 
The  coming  .in  of  the  new  master  of  March- 


JOHN  MARCHMONT'S  LE»ACT. 


113 


mont  Towers  was  to  ^Cj  take  it  altogether,  aTo^vers.  It  was  a  lucky  September  morning  that 
very  grand  afifair.  The  Chorley  CastJe  fox- ; swept  that  bright-faced  boy  out  of  my  pathway, 
hounds  were  to  meet,  at  eleven  o'clock,  upon  ; and  left' only  sickly  John  Marchmont  and  his 
the  great  grass-plot,  or  lawn,  as  it  was  popularly  daughter  betwern  me  and  fortune' 
called,  before  the  western  front.  The  country,  Ye?;  .Mr.  Paul  Marcliniont's  year  of  probation 
ge-ntry  from  far  and  near  had  been  invited  to  «.  -  was  [  ast.  He  had  asserted  himself  to  Messr?. 
huiiting-breakfasl.  Open  house  was  to  be  kept ;  Paulclte,  Paulelte,  and  Malhcwsnn,  and  before 
all  day  for  rich  and  poor.  Every  mala  iiihaiil- ( the  fi.ce  cf  all  Mncoln^hire,  in  the  character  of 
ant  of  the  district  who  could  must«r  any  thing  ;  an  honorable  and  higli-mindt'd  man;  slow  to  seize 
in  the  way  of  a  mount  was  likely  to  join  the  ;  upon  the  fortune  that  had  fallen  to  him,  conscien- 
fricndly  gathering.  Poor  Reynard  is  decidedly  ;  iious.  punctilious,  Reiierou>i,  ard  ui  sellish.  He 
Kagland's  most  powerful  IcTelcr.  All  differences  had  done  all  this;  acd  now  the  trial  was  over,  and 
of  rank  ami  station,  all  dislinclions  which  Mam- {the  day  of  triumph  had  come, 
rion  raises  in  erery  other  quarter,  me  t  a\»ay  he-  ;  TherQ  has  been  a  race  of  rillaits  of  late  years 
fore  the  fiiendly  c  )u!.iclof  the  huntin*;  liold.The  ;  vtry  popular  with  the  noTel-writer  and  the  dram- 
man  who  riJos  best  is  liic  best  man;  and  the  youn^  atisl,  tut  not,  i  thnk,  quite  indisrenous  to  Ijhis 
butcher  vrho  mak»i  iKht  of  sunk  fences,  and  honest  British  soil;  a  race  of  pale-faced,  dark- 
skims;  bird-like,  orer  bullfinches  and  timber,  may  eyed,  arjd  all-accomplished  scoundrels,  whose 
hold  his  owQ  with  the  dandy  heir  of  half  the  eountry  chiefest  attribute  is  imperturbability.  The  imptr- 
side.  The  cook  at  Marchmont  Towers  had  enough  ,  turbable  rillain  has  lieen  guilty  of  every  iniquity 
to  do  to  prepare,  for'this  rr«al  day.  It  was  the;  in  the  black  catalogue  of  crimes;  but  he  has  ntver 
rtrst  meet  of  the  season,  and  in  itself  a  solemn  been  guilty  of  an  emotion.  He  wins  a  million  of 
fcstiral.  Paul  Marchmont  k«cw  this;  and  though  ;  money  at  trfnle  ct  quaranle,  to  the  terror  and  as- 
the  Cockney  artist 
as  much  of  fox-hu 

the  Nile,  he  seized  upotTllie-opporlunity  of  making  docs-lhat  imperturbable  creature  betray  a  senti- 
hina«elf  popular,  and  determined  to  gire  such  a  mcnt  of  satislaction.  Fltiin  or  glory,  shame  or 
hunting-braakfajt  j»s  had  never  been  givem  within  'triumf'h,  defeat,  disgrace,  or  death— all  arealike 
the  walls  of  Marchmont  Towers  sinci  the  time  of  :  to  the  callous  ruffian  of  the  .^tiglo-Galiic  novelt 
a  certain  rackety  Hugh  Marchmont,  who  had  He  smiles,  and  iilurders  while  he  ami  es,  and 
drunk  himself  todeath  early  in  the  reign  ofCJeor^c 'smiles  while  he  murders. 

HI.  Kc  spent  the  morning  of  the  ITth  in  the  ;  Paul  Marchmont  was  iiot.lhis  sort  of  man.  He' 
steward's  room,  looking  through  the  ccllnr-book  -  was  a  hypocrite  when  it  was  essential  to  his  own 
with  the  old  butler,  selecting  the  wines  that  were  '  safely  to  practice  hvp^crisy;  but  he  did  iioi  accept 
to  be  drunk  the  following  duy,  and  planning  ihc  hifc  as  a  drama,  in  which  he  was  fbrever  to  be 
arrannera(3nt3  for  the  mass  of  Ti»itor»,  w!io  uere  -acting  a  part.  Life  would  scarcely  be  worth  the 
tj  be  cnlertamed  iu  the  j;i»at  sione  entrance  hall,?  baring  to  any  man  upon  such  terms,  it  is  all  very 
in  the  kitchens,  in  the  liousckecper's  r^'Oin,  in  the  ;  well  to  wear  henry  plafc-anncir,  and  a  casque  that 


of  Fitzroy  Square  knew  about    tnnishment  of  all  Homhurg;  ard  by  not  so   much 
uting  as  he  did  of  the  source  of  a«  one  twinkle  of  his  r}^or  one  quiver  of  his  lip 


servants'  hail,  in  almost  every  chamber  that  af- 
forded accnnj  iioda'ion  for  a  gue-t. 

'You  will  take  care  that  people  get  placed  ac- 
cording to  their  rank,'  Paul  said  t6  t'ls  i; ray-haired 
servant.  'You  know  every  b'.>dy  ab  )ut  here,  1 
dare  say,  and  ^^'ill  bs  able  to  manage  so  that  we 
may  give  nooU'ensc.' 

The  gentry  were  to  breakfast  in  the  long  dining- 


iveighs  fourtoen  jiounds  or  so,  when  we  go  into 
the  thick  of  the  f)^;lit.  But  to  wear  the  armor  al- 
ways, to  live  in  it,  to  sleep  in  it,  to  carry  Ihepon- 
iJerous  protection  about  us  forever  and  ever! — 
Safely  would  be  too  dear  if  pirchaicd  by  such  a 
sacritice  of  all  personal  ease.  Paul  Marchmont, 
therefore,  being  a  .«elfish  and  self-indulgent  man, 
Mily  wore  hi.-i  armor  of  hypocri-y   occasionally, 


room  and  in  the  western  drawing-room.      Spark-  ';and  when  it  was  vitally   nrces«ary  for  his  pres»r- 


ling  hocks  and    Uurgurriies,    fragrant  Mos<?l!e«, 
Champngnes  of  choicest  brand  »nd  rares:  boiio.iet, 


vatioii.     He  had  imj.osed  upon  himse-f  a  penance, 
and  HCted  a  part  i:i  hoMing  back  for  a  3 ear  from 


were  to  flow  like  water  for  the  benefit  ol  the  ^the  cnjiiymeut  of  a  sple.  did  fortune;  and  he  had 
country  gentlemen  who  should  come  to  do  hoijfir  ■■  made  this  ime  great  sacrilicc  in  order  to  give  the 
to  Paul  ^!archmont'«  installation.  Great  casf4  lie  to  Kdw.ird  Arundi  I 'i  vague  aecusjiii«>n««,  which 
of  comestibles  had  bce.i  sent  by  ra'il  from  Fort-  might  havo  hid  -.tri  awkwarvl  clfect  upon  the  minds 
num  and  .'•J.ison's;  and  the  science  of  the  cook  at  of  other  people,  h:<d  the  artist  gra.iped  too  eaiteriy 
the  Powers  had  been  taxed  to  the  utmost,  in  the  at  bis  missini^  cousin's  wealth.  Paul  Marrhmotit 
struggles  wiiich  she  rasdc  to  prove  herself  equal  had  made  this  sncritfte;  but  ho  did  not  intend  to 
to  the  oce-asioii.  Twenty-one  great  casks  of  a!»,  net  a  jiiiit  all  his  life.  He  meant  to  fnjoy  him- 
each  cask  containin;;  Iwcnty-onc  jrallons.  had  bc<  ti  sulf,  and  to  (jet  ilie  I'ullest  posstbic  hi  nttit  out  cf 
fcrcwcd  long  ago,  at  inc   bfrlh  of  Arthur  Marrh-    h:8  good  fortune.     Hi.  meant  to  do  this;  and  upon 


mont,  and  had  been  luid  wi  th^  cellar  aver  «ii  c*, 
wailing  for  th'".  m.-jjorily  of  the  young  heir  n  lio 
was  never  to  corae  of  age.  This  very  ale,  'x  ilh 
a  certain  sense  of  triu  uph,  Paul  Marchmont  or- 
dered l>j  be  brought  for'h  for  the  refreshment  cf 
the  coinm  iners. 


llio  I7th  of  OitobtT  he  made  no  ell'ort  to  re.Mrain 
his  spirits, , but  laughed  and  talked  joyously  with 
»v  hocvrr  curac  i;i  iiis  way;  winning  golden  opin- 
ions I'loii)  all  sorts  of  men;  lor  lo>iq>iiicss  is  con- 
tagious, and  every  binly  likes  liappy  people. 
To rly  years  of  poverty  is  a  long  apprenticeship 


Poor  young  Arthur!'  he  thought,  after  he  bad    to  the  very  hardest  of  qiasleis — an  apprenticeship 


givi  n  lliii  ord<-r.  'I  kaw  him  once  when  t!};  was  a 
pretty  boy  with  f.nr  ringleu,  dress<-d  in  :i  suit  of 
black  velvet.  His  father  himiijhl  liim  to  mv  stu- 
dio one  day,  wlinn  he  can(<"  to  p.ifronizii  me  and 
buy  a  picture  of  me — out  of  sh^cr  charity,  of 
course,  for  h«  cared  as  much  for  pirturcs  as  I  do 


iralciiJ.iKd  to  givo  the  ke«:iiest  possible  zest  to 
nertlj-«»rt,uired  weailli  I'.iul  Marchmont  rej-ictd 
ia  liis  w>-aitli  wiili  an  <tlinost  delirious  sense  of  dt- 
lighi.  It  u  as  his  at  last  .At  last !  He  had  waited, 
and  wjilrd  patiently;  and  at  last,  while  his  powers 
of  enjoyment   were  still   in  their  zenith,  it  had 


for  fox-hourids.      /  was  a  poor  reiaiion  then,  and    come.     How  often  he  had  dreauitd  of  this;  how 
netrer  thought  to  see  the  inside  of  >Tarcbmotit  'often  he  bad  dreamed  of  that  which  wu  to  tkk* 
15 


114 


JOHN  MARCHMONT'S  LEfilACT. 


Elac©  to-morrow  !  IIov/  often  in  his  dreams  he 
adseen  the  ptorc-built  mansion,  and.  heard  the 
voices  of  the  cro^d  doing  hio^  honpr.  Ke  h»d 
felt  all  the  pride'  and  delight  of  possession,  to 
a.-v\'alre  suddenly  in  the  midst  of  his  triumph,  and 
gnash  his  teeth  at  the  remembrance  of  his  pov- 
erty. And  now  the  {iorerty  was  a  thing  to  be 
dreamed  about,  and  the  wealth  was  his.  He  had 
always  been  a  good  son  and  a  kind  brother;  and 
his  mother  and  sister  were  to  arrive  upon  the  eve 
of  his  installation,  and  were  to  witness  his  tri- 
umph. The  rooms  that  had  been  altered  were 
those  chosen  by  Paul  for  his  •  mother  a!id  maides 
sisfpr,  and  the  new  furniture  had  been  ordered  for 
their  comff>rt.  It  was  one  of  his  many  pleasures 
upon  this  dayto  inspect  the  apartments,  to  see 
that  all  his  directions  had  been  faithfully  carried 
out,  and  to  speculate  upon  the  effect  which  these 
spacious  and  luxurious  chambers  would  have  upon 
the'minds  of  Mrs.  Paul  Ma'rchmont  and  her  daugh- 
ter, newly  come  from  shabby  lodgings  in  Char- 
lotte Street. 

'My  poor  mother!'  thought  the  artist,  as  he 
looked  round  the  pretty  sitting-room.  This  sit- 
ting-room opened  into  a»r  noble  bedchamber,  be- 
yond which  there  was  a  dressing-room.  'My  poor 
mother!'  he  thought;  'she  has  suffered  a  long 
time,  and  she  has  been  patient.  She  has  never 
ceased  to  believe  in  me;  and  she  will  gee  now  that 
there  was  some  reason  for  that  belief.  I  told  her 
long  ago,  when  our  fortunes  were  at  the  lowest 
ebb,  when  I  was  painting  landscapes  for  the  fur- 
niture-brOkers  at  a  pound  apiece— I  told  her  I  was 
meant  for  something  better  than  a  tradesman's 
hack;  and  I  have  proved  it — I  have  proved  it.' 

_He  walked  about  the  room,  arranging  the  fur- 
niture with  his  own  hands;  walking  a  few  paces 
backward  now  and  then  to  coHtemplate  such  and 
such  aB  effect  fronj  an  artistic  point  of  view; 
flinging  the  rich  stuff  of  the  curtains  into  grace- 
ful folds;  admiring  and  examining  every  thing, 
always  with  a  smile  on  his  face.  He  seemed 
thoroughly  happy.  If  he  had  done  any  wrong;  if 
by  any  act  of  treachery  he  had  hastened  Mary 
Arundel's  death,  no  recollection  of  that  foul  wort 
arose  in  his  brea-il  to  disturb  the  pleasant  current 
of  his  thoughts.  Selfish  and  self-indulgent,  onl_\ 
attached  to  those  who  were  necessary  to  his  own 
happioess,  his  thoughts  rarely  wandered  beyond 
the  narrow  circle  of  his  own  cares  or  his  own 
pleasures.  He  was  thoroughly  selfish.  He  could 
have  sat  at  a  Lord  Mayor's  feast  with  a  famine- 
stricken  population  clamoring  at  the  door  of  the 
banquet  chamber.  He  believed  in  himself  as  his 
mother  and  sister  had  believed ;  and  be  considered 
that  he  had  a  right  to  be  happy  and  prosperous, 
whoever  suffered  sorrow  and  adversity. 

Upon  this  17th  of  October  Olivia  Marchmont 
sat  in  the  little  study  looking  out  upon  the  quad- 
rangle, while  the  household  was  busied  with  the 
preparations  for  the  festival  of  the  following  day. 
She  was  to  remain  at  Marchmont  Towers  as  a 
guest  of  the  new  master  of  the  mansion.  She 
would  be  protected  from  all  scandal,  Paul  had 
said,  by  the  presence  of  his  mother  and  sister. 
She  could  retain  the  apartments  she  had  been  ac- 
custonu'd  to  occupy;  she  could  pursue  her  old  mode 
of  life  He  himself  was  not  likely  to  be  very 
much  a;  the  Towers.  He  was  going  to  travel  and 
to  enjoy  life  now  that  he  was  a  rich  man. 

These  were  the  arguments  which  Mr.  March- 
mont used  when  openly  discussing  the  widow's 
residence  ra  his  home,    But  in  a  private  conrer- 


sation  between  Olivia  and  himself,  he  had  only 
said  a  very  few  words  upon  the  subject. 

'You  must  remain,'  he  said;  and  Olivia  submit- 
ted, obeying  him  with  a  sullen  indifference  that 
w?.3  almost  like  the  mechanical  submission  of  an 
irrespo»sible  beiBg. 

John  Marchmont'i  wifiow  seemed  entirely  un- 
der the  dominion  of  the  new  master  of  the  Tow- 
ers.    It  was  as  if  the  stormy  pas-i^ions  which  had 
arisen   out  of  a  slighted  love  had  worn  out  this 
woman's  mind,  and  had  left  her  helpless  to  stand 
against  the   force  of  Paul  Marchraont's  keen  and 
vigorous  intellect.      A  remarkable  change  had 
come  over  Olivia 's  character.    A  dull  apathy  had 
(  succeeded  that  fiecy  energy  of  soul  which  hjd  en- 
\  feebled  and  weil-nij!,h  worn  out  her  body.    There 
I  were  no  outbursts  of  passion  now.     She  bore  the 
!  miserable  monotony  of  her  life   uncomplaingly. 
I  Day  after  day,   week  after  week,  month   after 
(month,    idle  and  apathetic,  she  sat  in' her  lonely 
I  room,  or  wandered  slowly  in  the  grounds  about 
{ the  To\7ers.     She  very  rarely  went  beyond  those 
grounds.      She  was  seldom  seen  now  in  her  old 
pew  at  Kemberling  Church;  and  when  her  father 
went  to -her  and  remon?trated  with  her  for  her 
non-attendance,  she  tojd  him   sullenly  that   she 
was  too  ill  to  go.     She  was  ill.     George  Weston 
attended  her  constantly;  but  he  found  it  very  dif- 
ficult to  administer  to  such  a  sickness  as  hers,  and 
he  could  only  shake  his  head  despondently  when 
he  felt  her  feeble  pulse,  or  listened  to  the   slow 
beating  oi"  her  heart.    Sometimes  she  would  shut 
herself  up  in  her  room  for  a  month  at  a  time;  and 
see  no  one  but  Mr.  V/eston — whom,  in  her  utter 
indifference,  she  seemed  to  regard  as  a  kind  of 
domestic  animal,  whose  going  or  coming  were 
alike  unimportant — and  her  faithful  servant  Bar- 
bara. 

This  stolid ,  silent  Barbara  waited  upon  her  mis- 
tress with  untiring  patience.  She  bore  with  every 
change  of  Olivia's  gloomy  temper;  she  was  a  per- 
petual shield  and  protection  to  her.  Even  upon 
this  day  of  preparation  and  disorder,  Mrs.  Sim.- 
mons  kept  guard  over  the  passage  leading  to  the 
study,  and  took  care  that  no  one  intruded  upon 
her  mistress.  At  about  four  o'clock  all  Paul 
Marchmont's  orders  had  been  given,  and  thanew 
master  of  the  house  dined  for  the  first  lime  by 
himself  at  the  head  of  the  long  carv€d-oak  dining 
table,  waited  upon  in  solemn  state  by  the  old  but- 
leqt  His  motlier  and  sister  were  to  arrive  by  a 
train  that  would  reach  Swampington  at  ten 
o'clock,  and  one  of  the  carriages  from  the  Tow- 
ers was  to  meet  them  at  the  station.  The  artist 
had  leisure  in  the  mean  time  for  any  other  bu»i- 
ness  he  might  have  to  transact. 

He  ate  his  dinner  slowly,  thinking  deeply  all 
the  time.  He  did  not  stop  to  drink  any  wine  after 
dinner,  but  as  soon  as  the  cloth  was  removed, 
rose  from  the  table, and  went  straight  to  Olivia's 
room. 

'I  am  going  down  to  the  painting-rcom,'  he 
•aid.  'Will  you  come  there  presently?  I  want 
very  much  to  say  a  few  words  to  you.' 

Olivia  wag  sitting  near  the  window,  with  her 

hands  lying  idle  in  her  lap.     She  rarely  opened 

a  book  now,  rarely  wrote  a  letter,  or  occupied 

j  herself  in  any  manner.     She  scarcely  raised  her 

j  eyes  as  she  answered  him. 

'Yes,' she  said; 'I  will  come. ' 

'Don't  be  long,  theA.     It  will   be  dark  very 

soon.    I  am  not  going  down  there  to  paint;  I  am 

going  to  fetch  a  landscape  that  I  want  to  hang  in 

(  my  mpther's  room,  and  to  say  a  few  words  about — ' 


JUlliN  iVJAilCHMONT'*  Lfi«AOY. 


115 


He  closed  the  door  without  stopping  to  finish 
the  sentence,  and  went  out  into  the  quadrangle. 

Ten  minutes  afterward  Olivia  MarchmontYOHe, 
and,  taking  a  heavy  woolen  shav/i  from  a  chair 
near  her,  v,'i-appcd  it  loosely  about  her  head  and 
Slioulders. 

'I  am  his  slave  and  his  prisoner,'  ^he  muttered 
to  herself.     M  must  do  as  he  bids  me.' 

A  cold  wind  was  blowing  in  the  quadranp;le, 
and  the  stone  pavement  was  wet  with  a  drizzling 
rain.  The  sun.  had  just  "gone  down,  and  the  dull 
autumn  sky  was  darkening.  The  fallen  leaves  in 
the  wood  were  sodden  with  damp,  and  rotted 
slowly  on  the  swampy  ground. 

Olivia  took  her  M-ay  mechanically  along  the 
narrokV  pathway  leading  to  the  river.  Half-way 
bjtween  Marchmont  Towers  and  the  boat-house 
she  came  suddenly  upon  the  figure  of  a  man  walk- 
ing toward  her  through  the  dust.  This  man  was 
E  J  ward  Arundel. 

The  two  cousins  had  not  met  since  the  March 
evening  upon  which  Edwai'd  h,%d  gone  to  seek 
the  widow  in  Paul  JNlarchmont's  painting-room. 
Olivia's  pale  face  grew  whiter  as  sh'e  recogniaed 
t!ic  soldier. 

'I  was  coming  to  the  house  to  speak  to  you, 
Mrs.  Marchmont,' Edward  said,  sternly.  '1  am 
lacky  in  meeting  you  here,  for  1  don't  want  any 
one  to  overhear  what  I've  got  to  «ay.' 

He  had  turned  in  the  direction  in  which  Olivia 
had  been  walking;  but  she  made  a  dead  stop,aDd 
stood  looking  at  him. 

'You  were  going  to  the  boat-house,' he  said.  'I 
will  go  there  with  you.' 

She  looked  at  him  for  a  moment,  as  if  doubtful 
what  to  do,  and  then  said  : 

'Very  well.  You  can  say  wliat  you  have  to  say 
to  me,  and  then  leave  me.  There  is  no  sympathy 
between  us;  there  ii  no  regard  between  us;  Ave 
arc  only  antagonists.' 

'1  hope  not,  Olivia.  I  hope  there  is  some  spark 
of  regard  still,  in  spite  of  all.  1  separate  you  in 
my  own  mind  from  Paul  Marchmont.  1  pity  you, 
for  I  believe  you  to  be  his  toot.' 

'Is  this  what  you  have  to  say  to  me.-' 

'No;  1  came  here  as  your  kinsman,  to  ask  you 
what  you  mean  to  do  now  that  Paul  Marchmont 
has  taken  posiession  of  th«  Towers .'' 

'1  mean  to  stay  there.' 

'In  spite  of  the  gossip  that  your  remaining  will 
give  rise  to  among  these  country  people!' 

'In  spite  of  everything.  Mr.'  Marchmont  wishes 
me  to  stay.  It  suits  me  to  stay.  What  does  it 
matter  what  people  say  of  me?  What"do  I  car© 
fjr  any  one's  opinion — now.-' 

'Olivia,'  cried  the  young  man,  'are  you  mad?' 

'Perhaps  1  am,'  she  answered,  coldiy. 

'Why  IS  it  that  yo\i  sliut  yourself  from  the  sym- 
pathy of  those  wiio  liave  a  right  to  care  for  you  ? 
\Vhat  is  the  mystery  of  your  life  ?' 

His  cousin  laughed  bitterly. 

'Would  you  like  to  know,  Edward  Arundel?' 
she  said.  'You  ■'•'nil  know,  perhaps,  some  day. 
You  have  despised  me  all  my  lif«;  you  will  de- 
spite me  more  and  more  then.' 

They  had  reached  Paul  .Marchmont's  painting- 
room  hy  this  time.  Olivia  opened  the  door  and 
walked  in,  followed  by  Kdward.  Paul  was  not 
there.  There  was  a  picture  covered  with  a  green 
hai/.c  upon  th«,  easei,  a:id  the  artist's  liat  stood 
upon  the  table  amidit  the  litter  of  brushes  and 
pallct«;but  the  room  was  empty.  The  door  at 
the  top  of  the  stone  stcpu  leading  to  tbc  paTilioD 
was  ajar. 


'Have  you  any  thing  more  to  say  to  me?'  Oli- 
via  asked,  turning  upon  her  cousin  as  if  she 
would  have  demanded  wby  he  had  followed 
her. 

.'Only  this  :  I  want  to  know  your  determina- 
tion; whether  you  will  be  advisad  by  me — and  by 
your  father— 1  saw  my  Uiicle  Hubert  this  ui'M-n- 
ing,  and  his  opinion,  exactly  coincides  with  mine 
— or  whether  you  mean  obstinately  to  take  your 
own  course  in  defiance  of  ev«ry  body?' 

'1  do,'  Olivia  answered.  '1  shall  take  my  own 
course.  I  defy  everybody.  I  have  not  bean 
gifted  with'  the  power- of  winning  people's  affec- 
tion. Oilier  women  possess  that  power,  and  trifle 
with  it,  and  turn  it  to  bad  account.  I  have 
prayed,  Edward  Arundel — yes,  1  have  jirayed 
upon  my  knees  to  the  God  who  made  me,  that 
He  would  give  me  some  poor  measure  of  that 
gift  which  Nature  had  lavished  upon  other  wo- 
men; but  He  would  not  hear  me.  He  would  not 
hear  me.  1  was  not  made  to  be  loved.  Why, 
then,  should  I  make  myself  a  slave  for  the  sake 
of  winning  people's  esteem?  If  they  have  de- 
spised me,  I  can  despise  them.' 

'Who  has  despised  you,  Olivia?'  Edward  asked, 
perplexed  by  his  cousin's  manner. 

tYoo  have!'  she  cried,  with  flashing  eyes; 'you 
have!  From  first  to  last — from  first  to  last!' 
She  turned  away  from  him  impatiently.  'Go,' 
she  said;  'why  sliould  we  Jceep  up  a  mockery  of 
friendship  and  cousiuship?  VVe  are  nothing  to 
each  other.' 

Edward  walked  toward  the  door;  but  he  paused 
upon  the  threshold,  with  his  hat  in  his  hand,  un- 
decided as  to  what  he  ought  to  do. 

As  he  stood  thus,  perplexed  and  irresolute,  a 
cry,  the  feeble  cry  of  a  child,  »ound*d  within  the 
pavilion. 

The  young  man  started  and  looked  at  hit  cou- 
sin. Even  in  the  dusk  he  could  sfte  that  her  face 
had  suddenly  grown  livid. 

'There  is  a  child  in  that  place,'  he  laid,  point- 
ing to  the  door  at  the  top  of  the  steps. 

The  cry  was  repeated  as  he  spoke — the  low, 
complaining  wail  of  a  child.  There  was  no  other 
voice  to  be  heard — no  mother's  voice  soothing  a 
helpless  little  one.  The  ory  of  the  child  was  fol- 
lowed by  a  dead  silence. 

'There  is  a  child  ia  that  pavilion,'  Edward 
Arundel  repeated. 

'There  is,' Olivia  aniwored. 

'Whose  child?' 

•What  does  it  matter  to  you  ?' 

•Whose  child?' 

•I  can  not  tell  you,  Edward  Arundel.' 

The  soldier  strode  toward  the  steps,  bnt  before 
he  could  reach  them  Olivia  flung  herself  acioss 
his  pathway. 

'I  will  see  whoie  child  is  bidder'  in  that  place,' 
he  said.  'Scandalous  things  have  been  said  of 
you,  Olivia.  I  will  know  the  reason  of  your  yisits 
to  this  place.' 

She  clung  about  his  knees  and  hindered  him 
from  moving;  half-kneeling,  half-rrouehing  on 
the  lowest  of  thp  stone-steps,  she  blocked  his 
pathway  and  prevented  him  from  -eaching  the 
door  of  the  pavilion.  It  had  been  ajar  a  few 
minutes  a!i;o;  it  was  shut  now.  But  Edward  bad 
not  noticed  thi<. 

'JVo,  no,  no  !'  shrieked  Olivia;  'yo-.;  'hall  tram- 
ple mc  to  death  before  you  enter  that  place.  You 
shall  walk  over  my  corpse  bcfere  you  pass  over 
that  threshold.* 

The  young  man  struggled  with  her  for  a  faw 


116  JOHM   WARCHMONT'd  LEGACY. 

moments;  then  he  suddenly  flung  lier  frona  liim —  been  if  his  young  wife  had  Jived.  He  couid 
not  violcnlly,  but  with  a  contomptuous  gesture.  fancy  her  bending  over  the  low  silver  tea-pot — 
'You  are  a  wiclscd  woman,  Olivia  Marclimont,'  the  sprawling,  jiiartistic  tea-pot,  that  stood  upon 
he  said; 'and  it  matters  very  little  to  me  what  qiiairtt  knobi,  like  gouty  feet,  and  had  been  long 
you  do  or  what  becomes  of  you.  1  know  now  the  ago  ■banished  from  the  Uangerfield  breakfast-table 
secret  of  the  mystery  between  you  and  Paul  as  utterly  rococo  and  ridiculous.  He  conjured  up 
Marchraont.  I  can  guess  your  motive  for  per-  the  dear  dead  face,  with  faint  hlvishes  fiickering 
petually  iiaunting  lliis  place.'  amidst  it*  lily  pallor,  and  soft  hazel  rjes  looking 

He  left  the  solitary  buildiji'?  oy  llit  river  and  up  at  hiui  through  the  misty  .sjcam  of  the  tea- 
walked  slowly  back  through  ti;c  wood.  table,  innocent  snd  virginal  as  iliu  eyes  of  that 
His  mind— predisposed  to  think  ill  of  Olivia  by.  mythic  nymph  who  wys  wont  to  appear  to  the  old 
the  dark  rumors  he  had  hoard- through  his  *cr-  Roman  king,  liow  happy  she  would  have  been '. 
vant,  and  which  had.had  a  certain  aniount  of  in-'  How  Aviliing  to  give  ap  fortune  and  station,  and 
fluence  upon  him,  as  al!  scandals  hove,  however :  to  have  lived  for  ever  and  ever  in  that  queer  old 
baseless — could  imagine  only  one  solution  to  the  cottt.ge,  ministering  to  him  and  loving  him  ! 
mystery  of  a  child's  presence  in  tiie  lon«ly  buiid-v  Presently  the  face  changed.  The  hazel-brown 
jng  by  the  river.  Outraged  and  indignant  at  the-  hair  was  suddenly  lit  up  ^ilh  s  gritier  of  barbaric 
discovery  he  had  made,  he  turned  his  back  upoia  p;o!d:  the  hazel  eyes  grew  blue  and  bright;  and 
Marchmont  Towers.  the  checks  blushed  rosy  red.  Tt.e  yotmg  man 
«I  will  stay  in  tht»  hateful  place  no  longer,'  he',  frowned  at  tiiis  new  and  brighter  vision;  but  he 
thought,  us  he  went  back  to  his  solitary  home;' contemplated  it  gravely  for  some  moments,  and 
'but  belore  1  leave  Lincolnshire  tlie  whole  conn-  then  breathed  a  long  sigh,  which  wai  somehow 
try  sliall  kno-.v  what  1  think  of  Paul  IMarchmonl.'^  or  other  expressive  of  i-elief. 

'iNo,'  he  said  to  himself,  'J  am  not  false  lo  my 
poor  lost  gill;  I  do  net  forget  her.     'ler  image  is 

^c^ dearer   to   nie    than    any   living   creature.     Tie 

■  mournful  shadow  of  her  face  is  more  precious  to 
me  than  the  brightest  reality.' 
CHAPTEH  XXIX.  He  sat  down  in  one  of  the  spindle-legged  arm- 

,  ,  chairs,  and  poured  out  a  cup  of  tea.     He  drank 

CAITAIN    ARtXDEL  S    REVENUE.  •        i         t'      i  v  .1       c  i          •  A    ,i 

,  ,  <  It  slovvly,  brooding  over  the  nre  as  he  sipped  the 

KuwA.RD  AiuiNDEL  wcht  back  to  his  lon«l}  home''  innocuous  beverage,  and  did  not  deign  to  notice 
with  a  settled  purpose  in  his  mind.  He  would  J  the  c.Tresaes  of  the  brown  setter,  who  laid  his 
leave  Lincohi-ihirc— and  immediately.  He  had/ cold  wet  no»e  in  h'n  master's  hand  by  way  of  a 
no  motive  for  remaining,     it  may  be,  indeed,that^  deiicslc  attention.    . 

he  had  a  strong  motive  for  going  away  from  the)      After  tea  the  young  man  rang  the  bell,  which 
nei;ihborhood  of  Lawford  Grange.     There  was  a;  was  atiswered  by  Mr.  Monison. 
lurking  danscer  in  the  doss  vicinage  of  that  pleas-  '     'Have  1  any  clothes  that  I  can  hunt  in,  Morri- 
ant,    cdd-fa-hioned   country    mansion,    and    the  :  son.-' Mr.  .*^rundel  aiked. 
bright  band  of  blue-eyed  damsels  who  inhabited        His  factotum  stared  aghast  at  this  question, 
there.  'You  ain't  a-goin'  to  'unt,  are  you,  Mr.  Ed- 

'I  will  turn  vny  back  upon  I/mcolnshire  for- ;  ward  ?' he  inquired,  anxiously, 
ever,' Edward  Arundel  saiu  to  himself  once  more, '.     'Never   mind   that.     1    asked   you   a    question 
upon  his   way  homeward   through   the    Ociober;  about  my  clothes,  and  J  want  a  straightforward 
twilight:  'hut  before  1  go,  the  wliole  country  shall ;  answer.' 
know  wiiat  1  think  of  Paul  Marchmont.'  ;      '  But,  Mr.  Edward,' remonstrated   the  old  ser- 

He  clenolied  his  fists  and  ground  his  teeth  in-  tant, 'I  don'l  mean  no  offense;  and  the  'orses  is 
voluntarily  as  he  thougfit  this.  ;  very   tidy  animals  in   their  way;   but   if  you're 

It  was  quite  dark  when  he  let  himself  in  at  the  ,  thinkin'  of  going  across  country — and 'a  pretty 
old-fashioned  lialf-glass  door  that  led  into  his  sliffish  country,  too.  as  I've  heard,  in  the  way  of 
humble  sitting-roorn  at  Kemberling  Retreat.  He  buil-finchea  and  tfniber — neither  of  them  bursts 
l»oked  round  the  little  chamber,  v.hich  had  been  has  &ny  more  of  a  hunt»r  in  him  than  I  have.' 
furnished  forty  years  before  by  the  proprietor  of  'I  know  that  as  well  ai  you  do,'  Edward  Arun- 
the  cottage,  and"  had  served  for  one  tenant  aficr  del  answered,  coolly;  'but  1  am  going  to  the  meet 
another,  until  it  saemed  as  if  the  spindU-legged  at  Marchhiont  Towers  to-morrow  morning,  and 
chairs  and  tables  had  grown  attenuated  and  ( I  want  you  to  look  mo  out  a  decent  suit  of 
shadowy  l)y  much  service.  He  looked  at  the  clothes,  "that's  all.  Vou  can  have  Desperado 
simple  room,  lighted  by  a  bright  fire  and  a  pair  of ;,  saddled  ready  for  me  a  little  after  eleven  o'clock.' 
waxL  candles  in  antique  silver  candlesticks.  The  ^  .Mr.  Morrison  looked  even  more  astonished 
red  fire-light  flickered  and  trembled  upon  the  jthan  before.  He  knew  his  master's  lavage  en- 
painted  roses  on  the  walls,  on  the  obsolete  en- ■  mity  tov.'ard  Paul  Marchmont;  and  yet  that  very 
gravingi  in  clumsy  frames  of  imitation-ebony  .ind  master  now  deliberately  talked  of  joining  in  an 
tarnished  guilt;  the  silver  tea-service  and  Sevres  assembly  which  was  to  gather  together  for  the 
china  cup  and  saucer,  which  Mrs.  Arundel  had  ;  special  purpose  of  doing  th«  »arae  Paul  March- 
sent  to  the  cottage  for  her  son's  use,  stood  upon  mont  honor.  However,  as  he  afterward  re- 
Ihe  small  oval  table;  ai.d  a  brown  setter,  a  favo-;  marked  to  the  two  fellow-s«rvants  with  whom  he 
rite  of  the  young  man's,  lay  upon  tlie  hearth-rug, 'sometimes  condescended  to  be  familiar,  it  wasn't 
with  his  chin  upon  his  outstretched  paws,  blink-  his  place  to  interfera  or  to  ask  any  questions,  and 
ing  at  the  blaze.  ,  he  had  held  his  tongue  accordingly. 

As  Mr.  Arundel  lingered  in  the  doorway,  look-  Perhaps  this  respectful  reticence  was  rather 
ing  at  these  things,  an  image  arose  before  him,  as  the  result  of  prudence  than  of  inclination;  for 
vivid  and  distinct  as  any  apparition  of  Professor  there  was  a  dangerous  light  in  Edward  Arundel's 
Pepper's  manufacture;  and  bethought  of  what ;  eyes  upon  thi»  particular  evening  which  Mr.  Mor- 
that  commonplace  cottage-chamber  might  have   rison  uever  had  observed  before. 


JOHN  MARCHMONT'S  LiiOACY. 


li; 


The  factutum  iaid  suins-tliiiig  uhoul  (liis  later 
111  11)6  cx'cniiig. 

^'1  fJo  lealiy  think,'  he  remarked, 'that,  wliat 
villi  that  yo'iiig  'ooman's  death,  and  the  solitood 
of  this  liiost  dijnial  place,  and  ihe  rainy  weather 
• — which  ih  ise  ai  mts  it  aiways  rains  in  Lincoln- 
shire «in't  r.rr  out— my  pore  youni;  tuastor  is  not 
liirt  mail  he  were.'     . 

He  lapped  hii  forehead  oininouuly,  to  gife  iig- 
nilicTiicf' t'>  his  words,  and  sighed  heevi'y  orei' 
li"  Mijifier-becr. 

'the  sun  slioiie  vjpon  }'ju!  Marcliinonl  on  the 
nioi.iidg  of  t,'ie  Iblh  of  OiMobcr.  Tlie  fhjrioii- 
aiilumti  sunshine  jtreanird  i  to  Jiis  gorgeous  iirj- 
chamlier — winch  had  hern  iLXiifiouslj  fitted  lor 
him  under  I'is  o«"n  si)ieriiiii'iidcn(e — and  awoke 
i\t  Lew  master  of  Marohmoiit  Toiirtrs.  H« 
opt'ned  his  eyes, and  loo'ied  aluul  hiui.  lie  rai«*d 
himself'  among;  the  down  juliows,  and  contcui- 
platcd  the  fi:!;ure3  up. in  the  tapestry  in  a  drowsy 
reverie.  He  liad  been  dreaming  of  liis  poverty; 
and  iiad  bee.i  dispuiinp;  a  [loor-rale  suni'nons 
widi  an  im(>cr.ineiil  tax-colicctor  in  the  dingy 
passage  of  the  lioute  in  Ciiarlolte  Street,  Fitzroy 
•Sijuare.  Ah!  tlial  horrible  liousc  had  so  ionj 
been  the  only  .scene  of  liis  life  that  it  liad  grown 
ainii.ist  a  part  of  his  mind,  and  haunted  iiiiu  per- 
petnilly  in  his  sleep,  like  a  nightmare  of  brick 
and  mortar,  ii;nv  liial  he  was  rich,  and  had  done 
with  it  forever. 

iVlr.  Marchmont  gave  a  faint  shudder,  and 
sliook  otr  the  influence  of  the  bad  dream.  Then, 
propped  up  by  the  pillows,  he  amused  himself  by 
admiring  his  new  bedchamber. 

It  wa«  a  handsome  room,  certainly;  the  very 
room  for  an  artist  and  *  sybarite.  Mr.  March- 
monlhad  not  chosen  it  without  due  consideration, 
it  was  situated  in  an  single  of  ttie  hou»e;  and 
liiouiih  its  chifcf  windows  looked  westward  .  being 

'  immediately  above  those  of  the  western  drawing- 
room,  I'lere  was  another  casement,  a  treat  oriel 
window,  facing  the  *ast,  and  admitting  a)l  the 

•  grandeur  of  the    morning  sun    through   painted 
glass,  on  which  the  iNIarchmont  escutcheon  was 
represented    in   gorgcou-t   hues   of  sapphire  and 
ruby,    emerald    and   topaz,   amethyst   and    aipia 
marina.     Bright  s.dashcs  of  these  colors  flashed 
and  sparkled    on    the   poli-hed  oaken  floor,  and 
mixed  themselves  with  the  Oriental  gaudiness  of 
a,  Persian  carpet,  stretched  beneath  the  low  Ara- 
bian   bed.    wliicji    was    hung   with    ruby-colored 
tiraperies   that  trailed  upoii   the   ground.     Paul  ' 
.Marchmont  was  fond  of  splendor,  and   meant  to 
have  as  much  of  it  as  money  could  buy.     There  ' 
was  a  voluptuoiii  pleasure  in  all  this  finery,  which  ' 
only  a  parvenu  c^uld  feel;  it  was  the  sJinrpness  of 
the   «ontrast    between    the    magnificence   of  the  ' 
present  and  the  shabby  miseries  of  the  past  that 
gave  a  poignancy  to  llic  arli-«t'»  enjoyment  of  his 
new  habitation. 

All  the  furniture  and  draperies  of  the  chainbcr 
had  been  made  by  Paul  Marchmont's  di*ection; 
but  its  chief  beauty  was.the  tapestry  that  covered  , 
the  walls,  which  had  l>ecn  worked  three  hun- 
dred years  before,  by  a  patient  chatelaine  of  the  ' 
house  of  Mirchniont.  This  tajjcstry  lined  lb* 
r*om  on  erery  side.  The  lovv  door  had  been  cut 
in  \U  so  that  a  stranger  going  into  that  apartment 

I  at  night,  a  little  under  the  inlluence  of  the  March- 
mont cellars,  and  unable  to  register  the  topogra- 
phy of  the  chamber  upon  the  tablet  of  his  mem- 
ory, might  have  been  forely  puzzled  to  find  an 
exit  the  next  niornins.     Most  tapo»tricd  chain- 


\  ber«  have  a  certain  disma'  grininess  about  them, 
i  which  is  n.orc  pleasant  to  the  sight-«eer  than  to 
;  the  c.oiii.faiit  iiihahilant;  but  in  this.' tapestry  the 
;  colors  were  p.lmcst  as  bright  and  glowing  to-day 
(  as  when  the  fiiigera  that  Jiad  liaridled  the  varie- 
;  gated  worsteds  were  still  warm  and  fiexiblc.  The 
,  subjects,  t)0,  were  of  a  more  pleasant  order  than 
Uisual.  >(0  mailed  lufiians  or  drapery-clad  hai - 
hari'jna    menaced   the   unoilendinj  sleeper   with 

■  u.-ilifted  clubs,  or  honi'oJc   bolts,  in    tiie  very  net 
of  being  launched  from  posideious  cross-bows;  no 

!  wicked-looking  Saracens,  with  ferocious  eyes  arxi 
-copper-colored    visages,    bandishcd    murderous 

cimr.iaijs  a!)ove  theirlurbaned  heads.  No:  hero 
'  all    v.ivS    pastoral    gayeiy  yiid    jieaccful    delight. 

.M4ideiis.  with  llowing  kirtles  and  crisped  yeilow 
'  hair,  danced  before  great  wagons  loaded  wiiii 
'  golden  wlivat.  Youths,  in  red' and  purple  jer- 
J  kins,  frisked  ai  they  played  the  pipe  and  t&bor. 
(The  Fleniisli  hgisca  dragging  the  heavy  wain 
'.  were  hung  with  bells  and  garlands,  as  for  a  r\it- 

tic  f*stival,  and   tossed   tlieir  untrimmcd  manes 

■  into  the  air,  and  frisked  and  gamboled  with  their 
j  awkward  legs,  in  ponderous  imitation  of  the 
'  youths  and  maidens.  Afar  off,  in  the  distance, 
i  wonderful  villages,  very  (jucer  as  to  perspective, 
:  but  all  a-bloom  with  gaudy  flowers  ami  qiiaiat 
^  r.idfs  of  bright  red  tiles,  stood  boldly  out  against 
;  a  bluer  sky  than  the  most  enthusiaslic  prc-Ka- 
)  phaclite  of  today  ^ould  care  to  send  to  the 
\  Academy  in  Trafalgar  Square. 

i  Paul  iViarchmviit  smiled  at  the  youths  and 
]  maidens,  the  ladun  waijons,  the  revelers,  and  tlie 
;  impossible  village.  He  was  in  a  humor  to  be 
;  p'cased  wiih  every  thing  to-day.  He  looked  at 
'  bis  drc.'«sing-!able,  which  stood  oppo!>ile  to  him, 
!  in  the  dcxp  oriel  window.  H^is  valet — he  had  a 
j  valet  now— had  opened  Ihe  great  inlaid  dressing- 
;  case,  ai'd  the  ;ilver-gilt  fittings  reflec.itd  the 
;  crimson  hues  of  the  velvet  lining,  as  if  the  gold 
\  had  been  flecked  with  blood.  Glitlcrwig  bottlei 
;  of  diamon-d-cut  glass,  that  prest^nted  a  thousand 
J  facets  to.  the  morning  light,  stood  ike  crystal 
[  obelisks  amidst  the  litter  of  carved  ivory  brushea, 
f  and  Sevres  boxes  of  pomatums;  and  one  rare  hot- 
!  hou«e  flower,  white  and  fragile,  peeped  out  of  a 
slender  crystal  vase,  against  a  back-ground  of 
dark  shining  leaves. 

'It's  bett^•r  than  Charlotte  Street,  Fitzroj- 
Square,' said  Mr.  jMarchmont,  throwing  himself 
ba.k  among  the  pillows  until  .such  time  as  his 
valet  should  bring  him  a  cup  of  strong  tea  to  re- 
fresh and  invigorate  big  nerves  wiliial.  H  re- 
member Ihe-  paper  in  lay  room  :  drab  hexagons 
and  yellow  spots  upon  a  brown  ground.  So 
pretty'!  And  then  the  dressing-table  :  deal,  grace- 
fully designed;  with  a  shallow  drawer  that  very 
rarely  AToiild  consent  to  come  out,  and  which, 
when  out,  had  an  inmrmountable  objection  to 
going  in  again;  a  most  delicious  tabic,  exquisitely 
painl»d  in  stripes,  olive  green  upoi!  stone  color, 
picked  out  with  the  favorite  brown.  Oh,  it  was 
•a  most  delightful  life;  but  it's  over,  thank  Provi- 
dence; it's  over!' 

Mr.  Paul  Marchmont  thanked  Providence  os 
devoutly  as  if  he  had  been  the  most  patient  at- 
tendant upon  the  divine  pleasure,  aqd  had  never 
for  one  moment  dreamt-d  of  intruding  his  own 
impious  handiwork  amidnt  the  mysterious  de- 
signs of  Omnipotence. 

The  sun  shoiie  upon  the  new  master  of  ?ilarch- 
mont  Toweri.  This  bright  October  morning 
was  not  the  very  best  for  hunting  purposes;  for 
there  was  a  fresh  breeze  blowing  from  the;iorth, 


Ij^  JOHN   MARCHMU.XT'S    LtGACY 

end  a  blue  uiicloti.ied  sky.  But  it  w«s  most  de-  body  about  him— iia— felt  on  this  most— arrah, 
li^htfiil  weallier  lor  the*  breakfast,  and  Hie  a«-  arrah— intcesting—er—occation;  and  said  a 
siTmbling  on  the  la*i.,  and  all  the  pleaiai.t  pre-;,  great  deal  more,  which  took  a  very  long  time  to 
liininariei  of  the  day's  spoit.  %lc.  Paul  March-;8ay,  but  th^^  gist  of  which  w&i,  that  all  thes» 
monl,  who  was  a  tho"roug!i-bred  Cockney,  troubled;  country  gcntleBion  were  so  enraptured  by  the 
himself  very  little  about  the  hunt  as  he  basked  in  ;  new  addition  to  their  circle,  and  so  altogether 
that  morning  light.  lie  only  ihuusht  that  the  ;  deli:;lited  with  Mr.  Paul  Marchmont,  that  they 
sun  was  shiotng  upjn  him,  and  that  he  had  come  ;:  really  were  at  a  loss  to  undersuind  how  it  was 
at  last— no  m»ttor  by  what  crooked  wars— to  ;  they  had  ever  managed  to  endure  existence  witk- 
the  realization  of  his  jrreat  daT-dream;  an.i  that  ^  out  him. 

he  was  to  be  happy  and  prosperous  for  the  rest  of:  .  And  then  there  was  a  good  deal  of  rnther  un- 
Ljj,  jjCp  ;,  necessary  but  very  enthusiastic  thumping  of  the 

lie  drank  his  tea,  and  tien  got  up  and  dretsed  (table,  whereat  the  costly  glass  shir-ered,  and  the 
hims"elf.  He  wore  the  conventional 'pink,' the  >  hot-house  blossoms  trembled,  amidst  the  muiical 
A^hitest  buckskins,  the  must  approved  boots  and ;.  chinking  of  silver  forks,  while  tke  fox-hunters 
tops-  and  he  admired  himself  very  much  in  the;  dcclart-d  in  chorus  that  the  new  owner  of  March- 
chev'al  glass  when  this  toilet  was  complete,  lle-mont  Towers  was  a  joily  good  fellow,  which— 
liad  put  on  the  dress  lor  the  gratification  of  his  ^  viz.,  the  fact  of  his  jollity— nobody  could  deny, 
vanity,  ratlier  than  from  any  serious  intention  of ;!  It  was  not  a  very  refined  demonstration,  but  it 
doing  what  he  waij  about  as  incapable  of  doing;  was  a  very  hearty  one.  Moreover,  these  noisy 
as  he  v/as  of  becoming  a  modern  Rubens  or  a ;  fox-hunters  were  all  men  of  some  standing  m 
new  Pvaphael.  He  would  receive  his  friends  in  ;  the  county;  and  it  is  a,  proof  of  the  artist's  in- 
thii  costume,  and  ride  to  cover,  and  follow  the  j  hercnt  snobbery  that  to  him  the  husky  voices  of 
hounds,  perhaps— a  little  way.  At  any  rate,  it ;!  these  half-drunken  men  were  more  delicious 
was  very  delightful  to  him  to  play  the  country ;;  than  th»  sweet  soprano  tones  of  an  equal  number 
gentleman;  and  he  had  never  felt  so  much  a  J  of  Pattis— penniless  and  obscure  Pattis,  that  is 
country  gentleman  as  at  this  moment,  when  he;;  to  say— sounding  his  praises.  He  was  lifted  at 
contemplated  himself  from  bead  to  heel  in  his  J  last  out  of  that  poor  artist-life,  in  which  he  had 
huiitin"  costume.  ,i  )  always  been  a  groveler— not  for  lack  of  talent, 

-  At  ten  o'clock  the  guests  began  to  assemble;;;  but  by  reason  of  the  smallness  of  his  own  soul— 
the  meet  was  not  to  take  place  until  twelve,  so  <  into  a  new  sphere,  where  every  body  was  rich 
that  there  might  be  plenty  of  time  for  the  break- '^  and  grand  and^rosperoHS  ;  and  where  the  pleas- 
|-gj^  /  ant  pathways  were  upon  the  necks  of  prostrate 

V  don't  think  Paul  Marchmont  ever  really  Slaves,  in  the  shape  of  grooms  and  hirelings,  re- 
knew  what  took  place  at  that  long  table  at  which  /  spectful  servants,  and  reverential  trades-people  ! 
ho  sat  for  the  first  time  in  the  place  of  host  and  j  Yes;  Paul  Marchmont  was  more  drunken  than 
master.  He  was  intoxicated  from  the  first  with/  any  of  his  guests;  but  his  drunkenness  was  of  a 
the  sense  of  triumph  and  delight  in  his  new  posi-  /  different  kind  to  theirs.  It  was  not  the  wine,  but 
tion;  and  he  drank  a  great  deal,  for  he  drank  un-<;  hi*  own  grandeur  that  intoxicated  and  besotted 
consciously,  emptying  his  glass  every  time  it  was:  him.  ,     ,     .     •   ,  .u'  •     ' 

filled,  and  never  knowing  who  filled  it,  or  what,'  1  hese  fox-hunters  might  get  the  better  of  their, 
was  put  into  it.  By  this  means  he  took  a  very  /  drunkenness  in  half  an  hour  or  so;  but  his  intoxi- 
considerable  quantity  of  various  sparkling  and!  cation  was  likely  to  last  for  a  very  long  time  un- 
effervescing  wines;  sometimes  hock,  sometimes )  less  he  should  receive  gome  sudden  shock,  power- 
Moselle,  very  often  Champagne,  to  say.  nothings,  ful  enough  to  sober  him.  The  hounds  were  yelp- 
of  a  st.-ady  undercurrent  of  unpronounceable/ iiig  and  baying  upon  the  lawn,  and -the  huntsmen 
German  hocks  and  crusted  Burgundies.  But  he ,  and  whippers-in  were  running  backward  and  for- 
was  not  drunk  after  the  common  fashion  of  mor-/  ward  from  the  lawn  to  the  servants'  hall,  devour- 
tals;  he  could  not  be  upon  this  particular  day.  /  ing  snacks  of  beef  aad  ham— a  pound  and  a 
He  was  not  stupid,  or  drowsy,  or  unsteady  upon /quarter  or  so  at  one  sitting;  or  crunching  the 
his  legs;  he  was  only  preturnaturally  excited,' bones  of  a  frivolous  young  chicken— thei-e  were 
looking  at  everything  through  a  haze  of  dazzling;;  not  half  a  dozen  mouthfuls  on  such  insignificant, 
light,  as  if  all  the  gold  of  his  newly-acquired  for-Hialfgrown  fowls;  or  excavating  under  the  roof 
tune  had  been  melted  into  the  atmosphere.  ;;  of  a  great  game-pie;  or  drinking  a  quart  or  so  of 

He  knew  that  the  breakfast  was  a  great  sue- ;^  strong  ale,  or  half  a  tumbler  of  raw  brandy,  en 
cess;  that  the  long  table  was  spread  with  every /passani:;  at^d  doing  a  great  deal  more  in  the  same 
delicious  comestible  that  the  science  of  a  first- '  way,  merely  to  beguile  the  tinse  until  the  genllc- 
rate  cook,  to  say  nothing  of  Fortnum  and  Mason,  I  folks  should  appear  upon  the  broad  stone  terrace, 
could  devise;  that  the  profusion  of  splendid  sil-;  It  was  half-psst  twelve  o'clock,  and  Mr.  March- 
ver  the  costly  china,  the  hot-honse  fiowe"rs,  and  j  mont'.^  quests  were  still  drinking  and  speechify- 
the' sunshine,  made  a  confused  mass  of  restless  ■  ing.  They  had  be«n  on  the  point  of  making  a 
"■litter  and  glowing  color  that  dazzled  his  eyes  as'!  move  ever  so  many  times;  but  it  had  happened 
he  looked  a1  it.  He  knew  that  every  body  courted  jthat  each  time  some  gaiitlcman,  who  had  been 
and  flattered  him,  ar.d  that  he  was  almost  stifled  l'  very  quiet  until  that  mooient,  suddenly  got  upon 
by  the  overpowering  sesise  of  his  own  grandeur.  {  his  legs,  and  began  to  cling  convulsively  to  the 
Perhaps  he  felt  this  most  when  a  certain  county  \  neck  of  a  half  empty  Champagne-bottle,  and  to 
magnate,  a  baronet,  member  of  Parliament,  and  ;  make  swalbwing  and  gasping  noises,  and  to  wipe 
Kreat  land-owner,  rose— primed  with  Champagne, ;  his  lips  witl'  a  napkin;  whereDy  it  was  understood 
and  rather  thicker  of  utterance  than  a  man  ;  that  he  wat  going  to  propose  somebody's  health, 
should  be  who  means  to  be  in  at  the  deatlr,  b"- ;  Thij  had  considerably  lengthened  the  enterlaiii- 
and-bv— and  took  the  opportunity  of— hum—  ment,  and  it  seemed  rather  likely  that  the  osten- 
expressing,  in  a  few  words— haw— the  very  sible  business  of  the  day  would  be  forgotten  alto- 
tti-eat  pleasure  which  lie— aw,  yes— and  he  :  gether.  One  gentleman,  indeed,  huskier  than  his 
thou'^ht  he  might  venture  to  remark— aw— every    nciglibors,  had  been  heard  to  mutter  toacthing 


JOHN  MARCHMONT'S  LEGACY. 


119 


about  billiards  and  8oda-wat«r;  and  another,  ■who  j 
was  thick  of  speech,  but  not  husky,  and  -who  had 
shed  tear*  in  propoiing  an  uniatellijiiiie  toast — 
which  was  supposed  to  be  the  heaJth  of  her 
tcracioua  Maj«i«ly — sujeested  a  stretch  on  a  sofa,.' 
and  the  removal  of  his  boots.  At  J»st,  at  half' 
past  tTTelve,  tha  county  mae;n»te,  who  had  bidden  i 
rani  Marchmont  a  st«f»ly  welcome  to  Linco'n- 1 
shire,  remembered  thsl  tlicre  were  tw#nty  couple  ' 
of  impsticnt  hounds  scratching  up  the  turf  in 
front  of  the  long  windows  of  the  banquct-cham-  1 
ber,  whila  as  many  eager  young  tenant  farmeri,  i 
stalwart  yeomen,  woll-to-do  butchers,  and  a  herd  : 
of  tag-rag  and  bobtail,  were  pining  f^or  the  sport  ( 
to  begin — at -Inst,  I  say,  Sir  Lionel  Boport  ra- j 
membared  this,  and  led  the  way  to  the  terrace, 
Icaring  tha  renegades  to  repose  oo'fhe  comfort- 1 
able  sofas  lurking  here  and  there  in  the  spacious  j 
rooms.  Then  the  grim  stone  front  of  the  house  ! 
was  suddenly  lighted  up  into  spltador?  The  long  \ 
terraca  was  one  blaze  of  pink,  relicTcd  hcra  and  i 
there  by  patches  of  sobar  black  and  forester's  j 
green.  Among  all  these  stalwart,  florid-visaged  ' 
country  gentlemen,  Paul  Marchmont,  very  ele-  { 
gant,  very  picturesque,  but  extremely  luisports-  v 
man-like,  the  hero  of  tha  ho«r,  walked  slowly  j 
down  tha  broad  stone  steps  amidst  tha  vociferous  ) 
cheering  of  the  crowd,  the  snapping  and  yelping  j 
of  impatiant  hounds,  anil  the  distant  braying  of  a  ) 
horn.  ; 

It  was  the  tho  crowninj  moment  of  his  lifo;  the 
moment  lie  had  dreamed  of  again  and   again  in 
tha  wretchfd  days  of  poverty  and  obscurity.  The  I 
scene  was  scarcely  now  to  him — ha  had   acted  it  ; 
so  often   in    his    insagination;  he   had  heard  the} 
shouts   anii    seen    the   respectful    crowd.     There ' 
was    a   little  diticrenco    in  detail — that  was  all.  > 
There  was  no  disappointment,  no  shortcoming  in  ; 
the  realization,  as   there    so    often   is  when  our' 
brightest  dreams  are  fuHiiled,  and  the  ore  great  > 
jood,  the  all-desired,  is  granted  to  us.     No;  the  • 
prize  was  his,  and   it  "was  worth  all  that  he  had 
sacrificed  to  win  it. 

He  looked  up  and  saw  his  mother  and  his  sisters 
in  the  great  window  over  {he  porch.  He  could  ■ 
see  the  exultant  pride  in  his  raother'n  pale  face;  : 
and  the  one  redeeming  sentiment  of  his  nature, 
his  love  for  the  womankind  who  depetided  upon  ; 
him,  stirred  faintly  in  his  breast,  amidit  the  '. 
tumult  of  gratified  ambition  add  selfish  Joy. 

This  one  drop   of  unselfish   pleasure  filled  the  ; 
cup  to  the  brim.     He  took  ofl'  his  hat  and  waved 
it  high  up  above  his  head  in  answer  to  the  shout- ; 
ing  of  the  crowd.     He  hid  stopped  half-way  down 
the  fliglit  of  steps  to  bow  his  acknowledgment  of; 
the  cheering.     Me  waved  his  hat,  and  the  huzzas  [ 
grew, still    lou'.'er;  and    a    band   upon   the   other; 
side  of  the  lawn  played  that  familiar  and  trium- ; 
phant  march  whirh  is  siijiposed  to  apply  to  every 
living  hero,  from   a  Wellington  just  come  houic 
from  Waterloo  t9  tke  winner  of  a  boat-race,  or  a^ 
patent-stsrch  proprietor  nowly  elected  by  an  ad- ; 
miring  constituency.  - 

There  was  nothing  wanting.  I  think  that  in  { 
that  supreme  moment  Paul  Marchmont  quite  for-' 
got  the  tortuous  and  perilnu*  wsys  by  which  he  j 
had  reached  this  all-glorious  pril.  I  don't  sup- 
pose the  young  princes,  smothered  in  the  Tower,  i 
were  ever  more  palpably  present  in  tyrant} 
Richard's  memory  than  whiu  the  Uiurdcrous  i 
usurper  groveled  in  Bosworiii's  miry  clay,  and  ' 
knew  that  tha  great  game  of  life  was  lost  It  | 
was  only  when  Henry  the  Eighth  took  away  the 
.  great  seal  that  Wolsey  was  able  to  sec  the  fool-  ] 


ishness  of  man's  ar.ibition.  Tn  that  moment 
memory  and  conscience,  never  very  wakeful  in 
the  breast  of  Paul  Marchmont,  were  dead  asleep, 
and  only  triumph  and  delight  leigned  in  their 
stead.  No;  thsre  was  nothing  wanting.  This 
glory  and  grandeur  pr.id  him  a  thousand-fold  for 
his  patience  and  self-abnegation  during  the  past 
year.  He  turned  half  rcund  to  look  up  at  those 
eager  wntcbers  at  the  win<]t.w. 

Good  God  !  It  was  his  sister  Lavinia's  face 
he  saw;  no  Icnjer  full  of  triumph  and  pleasure, 
but  ghastly  pale,  and  staring  at  some  one  or 
something  horrible  in  the  crowd.  Paw]  March- 
mont turned  to  look  for  this  horrible  something, 
the  sight  of  which  had  power  to  change  his  sis- 
ter's face;  and  found  himself  confronted  by  a 
young  man — a  young  man  whose  cyc-s  flamed 
like  coals  of  fire;  whoso  cheeks  were  as  white  as. 
a  sheet  of  paper;  and  whose  firm  lips  were  locked 
as  tightly  as  if  they  had  been  chiseled  out  of  a 
block  of  giauite. 

This  man  was  Edward  Arundel— the  young 
widower,  the  handsome  soldier — whom  every 
body  remembered  as  the  husband  of  poor  lost 
Mary  Marchmont. 

He  had  sprung  out  from  amidst  the  crowd  only 
one  moment  bcfere,  and  had  dashed  up  the  steps 
of  the  terrace  before  any  one  had  time  to  think 
of  hindering  Him  or  ir.terfering  with  him.  It 
seemed  to  Paul  Marchmont  as  if  he  must  have 
leaped  out  of  the  solid  earth,  so  suddden  and  to 
unlooked-for  was  his  coming.  He  stood  upon  the 
step  immediately  below  the  artist;  but  as  the  ter- 
race steps  were  shallow,  and  as  he  was  taller  by 
half  a  foot  than  Paul,  tlie  faces  of  the  men  weie 
level,  and  they  confronleH  each  other. 

The  soldier  held  a  heavy  huntinj-w  hip  in  his 
hand,  no  foppish  toy  with  a  golden  trinket  for  its 
head,  liut  a  stcut  handle  of  stag-horn,  and  a  for- 
midable leathern  thong.  He  held  this  whip  in  his 
strong  right  hand,  with  the  tbong  twisted  round 
the  handle;  and  tl|^rowing  out  his  leit  arm  nerv- 
ous and  muscular  as  the  limb  of  a  young  gladi- 
ator, he  seized  Paul  Marchmont  by  the  collar  of 
that  fashionably-cut  scarlet  coat  which  the  artist 
had  so  much  admired  in  the  cheval  glass  that 
morning. 

There  was  a  shout  of  surprise  and  coniterna- 
tion  from  the  gentlemen  on  the  terrace  and  the 
crowd  upon  the  lawn,  a  shrill  scream  from  the 
women,  and  in  the  next  moment  Paul  March- 
mont was  writhing  under  a  shower  of  blows 
from  thehunting-wliip  in  Kdward  Arundel's  hacd. 
The  artist  was  not  physically  brave,  yet  he  was 
not  such  a  cur  as  to  submit  unrciistiiigly  to  \h'n 
hideous  disgrace;  but  the  attack  was  so  suddrn 
and  unexpected  as  to  paraljze  him;  so  rapid  in 
its  execution  as  to  leave  him  no  time  for  resist- 
ance. Before  he  had  recovered  his  presence  of 
mind;  before  he  knew  the  meaning  of  Edward 
Arundel's  appearance  in  that  place;  even  before 
he  could  fully  realize  the  mere  fact  of  his  being 
there — the  thing  was  done;  he  was  disgraced  for- 
ever. He  had  sunk  in  that  one  momejit  from  the 
very  height  of  his  i;ew  grandeur  to  the  lowest 
depth  of  social  degradation. 

'Gentlemen!'  Edward  Arundel  cried,  in  a  loud 
voice,  which  was  distinctly  heard  by  every  mem- 
ber of  the  gaping  crowd,  'when  the  law  of  the 
land  suffers  a  scouiidrri  to  pro»|  er,  honest  men 
must  take  the  law  inio  Heir  own  hands.  1  wished 
you  to  know  my  opinion  rf  the  new  mastrr  uf 
Marchmont  Towers;  and  I  ihmk  I've  expressed 
it  pretty  clearly,     f  know  him  to  be  a  most  con- 


120 


JOHN  MARCHMONT'S  LEGACY. 


summate  villain;   and  I  give  you  fair  -warning  '  Edward  Arundel  had  whispered  close  to  his  ear 

that   he  is   no   fit  associate   for  honorable  men.  •  in  the  midst  of  the  struggle. 

Crond-morning.'  'I  \ino%v  ereiy  thing,'  the  young' man  had  said. 

Edward  Arundel  lifted  his  hat,  bowed   to  the  ]  '[  know  the  secrets  you  hide  in  the  pavilion   by 
assembly,  and   then   ran  down  the  steps.     Puul  l-the  river!' 
Marchmont,   livid,  and    foaming   at   the   mfiuth,  ;     , 

rushed  after  him,  brandishing  his   clenched  fists,  ;  

and  gesticulating  in  impotent  rage;  but  the  young  ;  "*■*■*  ' 

man's  horse  was  waiting  for  him  at  a  fdw  paces  ; 

I'roni  ths  terrace,  in  the  care  of  a  butcher's  ap- ;  CHAPTER  XXX. 

prentice,  ,nd   he  wa.   in    tl^ie  saddle  before  the  ■  ^^^^  peserted  chambers. 

artist  could  overtake  him. 

'I  shall  not  leave  Kemberling  for  a  week,  Mr.  '  Edward  Aruxdel  kept  his  word.  He  waited 
Marclimont,' he  called  cut;  and  then  he  walked  ;  for  a  wetk  and  upward,  but  Paul  Marchmont 
his  horse  away,  holding  himsL-lf  erect  as  a  dart,  :  made  no  sign;  and  after  having  given  him  three 
;in<i  jtaring  detisnce  at  the  crowd.  ^  days'  grace   over  aijd   above   the   ptr^miFed  time 

I  am  sorry  lo  iiiive  to'tcstify  to  the  fickle  nature  ■  the  young  man  abafdcned  Kemberling  Kttieat, 
ff  the  Hritish  populace;  but  I  am  bound  to  own  J  foi-ever,  as  he  thought,  and  went  away  from  Lin- 
that  a  great  many  of  the  stalwart  yeomen  who  ,  colnshire.    j 

had  eaten  game-pies  and  drunk  strong  liipjors  at  ;  He  had  waited,  hoping  that  Paul  Marchmont 
P.iul  Marchmonl's  expense^  not  half  ah  hour  be-;  would  try  to  retaliate,  and  that  some  desperate 
fore^  weri  base  enough  to  feel  an  involuntary  ;  struggle,  physical  or  legal — he  scarcely  cared 
ndmiraiion  fcir  Edward  Arundel,  as  he  redo  slowly  ,  \vhich — would  occur  between  them.  He  would 
away,  with  his  head  up  and  his  eyes  flaming.  ■  have  courted  any  hazard  which  might  have' 
Ttei-e  is  ?eldom  very  much  genuine  sympathy  for  )  given  him  some  chance  of  revenge.  But  nothing 
a  man  who  has  been  horsewhipped;  afd  there  is  happened.  He  sent  out  Mr.  Morrison  to  beat 
a  pretty  universal  inclination  to  holicve  that  the  [  up  information-  about  the  master  of  Marchmont 
man  wdo  inflicts  chastisement  upon  him  must  be  >  Towers;  and  ihe  factotum  came  back  with  the 
ri^ht  in  the  main.  It  is  true  that  the  tenant  fur-  intelligence  that  Mr.  Marchmont  was  ill,  and 
iners,  especially  those  whose  leases  were  nearly  would  see  no  one — 'leastways'  excepting  his  trio- 
run  out,  were"  very  loud  in  their  indignation  -  ther  and  Mr.  George  Weston, 
against  Mr.  Arundel,  and  one  adventurous  spirit  Edward  Arundel  shrugged  his  shoulders  when 
made  a  da»h  at  the  young  man's  bridle  as  he  went    ho  heard  theso  tidings. 

by;  but  the  general  feehng  wa^  in  favor  of  the  i  'What  a  contemptible  cur  the  man  is!'  he 
conqueror,  and  there  was  a  lack  of  heartiness  thought.  'There  was  a  time  when  I  could  have 
even  in  the  loudest  expressions  of  sympathy.  suspected  him   of  any  foul   play  against  my  lost 

The  crowd  made  H  lane  for  Paul   Marchmont    girl.    1  know  hini  better  now,  and  know  that  he  is 


not  even  capable  of  a  great  crime.  He  was  only 
strong  enough  to  stab  his  victim  in  the  dark,  with 
'lying  paragraphs  in  newspapers,  and  dastardly 
hints  and  inuendoes  for  his  weapons.' 

It  would  have  been  only  perhaps  an  act  of  or- 


'  dinary  politentss  had  Edward  Amndel  paid  a  fare- 


as  he  went  back  to  the  house,  white  and  helpless, 
and  Sick  with  shame. 

Several  of  the  gentlemen  upon  the  terrace 
came  forward  to  shake  hands  with  him.  and  to 
express  their  indignation,  and  to  offer  any  friendly 
service  that  he  might  require  of  them  by-and-by —  (  .  . 

such  as  standing  by  to  see  him  shot,  if  he  should  \  well  visit  to  his.  friends  at  the  Grange.  But  ho 
c!ioo«e  an  oM-fashioned  mods  of  retaliation;  or  (  did-not  go  near.the  hospitable  o'd  house.  He  con- 
bearing  witness  against  Edward  Arundtl  in  a  j  tented  himself  with  writing  a  cordial  letter  to  Ma- 
la-.v-court,  if  Mr.  Alarclimonl  preferred  to  take  (jor  Lawford,  thanking  him  for  his  ho.'pitality  and 
ic^al  mea-'UrPB.  i3ut  even  these  men  rtcoiit-d  J  kindness;  and  referring,  vaguely  enough,  to  the 
when  they  felt  the  cold  dasupnes-^  of  ihe  artii-t's  ;  hope  of  a  future  meeting. 

hi;A*,  :\nd  f,A\v  iU2it  lie.  Imd  been  frightened.  These  Throughout  that  last  day  Mr.  Arundel  wan- 
sUirdy  uproarious  fux-huniers,  who  braved  the  j  dered  here  and  there  about  the  house  and  garden 
peril  of  suc^len  death  every  time  they  took  a  j  that  so  soon  weie  to  be  deserted,  llewasdiead- 
day's  sport,  entertained  a  sovereign  contempt  for  fuily  at  a  losswhat  to  do  with  himself,  and,  alas  I 
:!  man  who  reii  d  be  frightened  of  any  body  or  it  was  not  to-day  only  that  he  felt  ihe  burden  of 
any  thing.  Thsy  made  ifo  allowance  for  Paul  I  his  hopeless  idu^nes?  lie  feil  it  a!  ways,  a  horri- 
Miirchmont's  Cockney  education;  they  were  not }  ble  load,  not  to  be  c.xvt  ;nvay  from  him. 
i  i  the  dark  secrets  of  his  life,  and  knew  nothing  >  His  life  was  most  miserable,  most  hopeless,  by 
of  his  guilty  conscience;  and  it  was  that  which  ■  reason  of  its  emptines*.  He  had  no  duty  to  per- 
had  made  him  more  helplt-ss  than  a  child  in  the  >  furm,  no  (ask  to  achieve.  That  nature  rou«t  \>r 
fierce  grasp  of  Edward  Ar'indfl.  '  utterly  selfish,  entirely  given  over  losyharite  rt* 

So,  one  by  "one,  after  this  polite  show  of  sym- '  and  self-indulgence,- which  does  not  feel  a  lackoi 
pathv,  the  rich  man's  guests  fell  away  from  him;  '  something,  wanting  these — a  duty  or  a  purpose, 
and  the  yelping  hounds  and  the  canleriug  horsey  Better  to  be  Sisyphus  toiling  up  the  mountain-side, 
left  the  lawn  before  Marchmoi>t  Towers;  the  Uhan  Sisyphus  vvith  the  stone  taken  away  from, 
sound  of  the  brass  band  and  the  voices  of  ihe  ?  him,  and  no  hope  of  ever  reaching  the  top.  fheard 
people  died  away  in  the  distance;  and  the  giory  -  a  man  once — a  bill-st'ckcr,  and  not  by  any  meafis 
of  the  day  was  done.  '  a  sentimental  or  phiioscphieal   person— declare 

Paul  Marchmont  crawl,  d  slowly  back  to  that  that  he  had  never  known  real  prosperity  until  he 
luxurious  bedchamber  which  le  hud  left  only  a  bad  thirteen  orphan  grandchihiien  to  siipport;and 
few  hours  before,  and,  throwing  himself  at  lull  ■,  surely  there  was  a  universal  moral  in  that  hill- 
length  upon  the  bed,  sv-bbed  like  a  frightened  ,  sticker's  confession.  He  h«d  been  a  drunkard  he- 
child.  •  fore,  perhaps — he  didn't  say  any  thing  about  that 

He  was  panic-stritken;  net  because  of  the  ^, — and  a  reprobate,  it  may  be;  but  those  thiiteen 
horsewhipping,  but  because  of  a  sentence  that  >  small  mouths  clamoring  for  food  made  him  sober 


JOHN  MAROMMONT'S  I-ESACY. 


121 


and  earnest,  brave  anJ  true.  He  had  a  duty  to 
do,  and  was  happy  in  its  performance.  He  was 
wanted  in  the  world,  and  he  was  somebody. 

The  only  joy  that  had  been  |pft  for  Edward 
Arundel  after  his  reiirenient  from  the  East  India 
Company's  service,  was  the  tierce  delight  of  ven- 
geance. He  had  drained  the  intoxicating  cup  to 
tne  dreers,  and  had  been  drunken  at  tirst  in  thi-. 
sense  of  his  triumph.  But  he  was  sober  now;  and 
he  paced  up  and  down  the  neglected  garden  be- 
neath a  dull  Ociober  sky,  ciunching  the  i'allen 
leaves  under  his  leet,  Aviili  his  arms  folded  and 
his  head  bent,  thinking  of  the  barren  future.  it 
was  all  hare — a  blank  stretcii  of  desert  land,  with 
iM  city  in  the  distance;  no  purple  fiomes  or  airy 
minarets  on  the  horizon.  It  was  in  the  very  na- 
ture of  l\i\i  young  man  to  be  a  soldier;  and  he 
was  nothing  if  not  a  soldier.  He  could  never  le- 
memher  having  had  any  other  aspiration  than  that 
Pager  thirst  for  military  glory.  Before  he  knew 
the  meaning  of  the  word  'war,'  in  his  very  in- 
fancy, the  sound  of  a  trumpet  or  the  sight  of  a  : 
waving  banner,  a  glittering  weapon,  a  senlinel's 
scarlet  coat,  had  moved  him  to  a  kind  of  rapture. 
The  unvarnished  school-room  records  of  Greek 
and  lloDian  warfare  had  been  as  delightful  to  him 
a-i  the  linest  passages  of  a  Maeaulay  or  a  Fronde, 
a  Thiers  or  Lamariinc.  He  was  a  soldier  by  the  , 
inspiration  of  Heaven,  as  all  great  soldiers  are.-, 
He  had  never  known  any  other  ambition,  or  ■ 
dreamed  any  other  dream.  Other  lads  had  talked  ■ 
of  the  h.ir,  and  the  senate,  and //iric  glories .  Uati !  • 
how  cold  and  tHtne  they  seemed  !  What  was  the  >. 
glory  of  a  parliamentary  triumph,  in  which  words  : 
were  the  only  weapons  wielded  by  the  combat- 
ants, compared  with  a  hand-to-hand  strugo;ie, 
ankle  deep  in  the  bloody  mire  of  a'  crowded 
trench,  or  a  cavalry  charge,  before  which  a  pha- 
lanx of  fierce  Afghans  fled  like  frightened  sheep 
\ipon  a  moor.  Edward  Arundel  was  a  scfldier,  like 
the  Duke  of  Wellington  or  Sir  Colin  Campbell,  or 
Oiliello.  The  Moor's  first  lamentation  when  he 
believes  that  Desdemona  is  false,  and  his  life  is 
broken,  is  that  sublime  farewell  to  all  the  glories 
of  the  battle-field.  It  was  almost  the  same  with 
Edward  Arundel.  The  loss  of  his  wife  and  of 
his  (captaincy  wttic  blent  and  mingled  in  his  mind, 
and  fie  could  only  bewail  the  one  great  loss  whichi 
left  life  most  des'ilate.  i 

fie  had  never  fell  the  full  extent  of  Jiis  desola- 
tion, until  now,  for  lierelofore  fie  bud  i)een  buoyed 
up  by  ttie  hope  of  vengeance  upon  Paul  March- 
mont;  and  now  that  his  solitary  hope  had  been 
iealJ7.ed  to  the  fullest  possible  e.Ment,  there  was 
nothing  left — nothing  but  to  revoke  the  sacrifice 
he  had  made,  and  ti>  regain  his  place  in  the  In- 
dian army  at  any  cost. 

He  tried  not  to  think  of  the  po>;sibility  of  llii*. 
It  seemeifto  him  almost  an  infidelity  toward  his 
dead  wife  to  dream  of  winning  honors  aixi  dis- 
tinction, now  that  she,  who  would  have  been  no 
riroud  of  any  triumph  won  by  him,  was  forever 
osl. 

So,  under  the  gray  Octoi)er  sky  be  pssscd  up 
and  down  upon  the  gravs-grown  pathways,  amidst 
the  wpcds  and  hriers,  the  braniblps  and  broken 
branches,  itiat  crackled  as  he  trod  upon  them; 
and  late  in  the  afternoon,  when  tho  day,  which 
h  id  been  sunless  and  cold,  was  melting  into  du^ky 
twilight,  he  opened  the  low  wooden  gateway  and 
went  out  mil)  the  roail.  An  impulse  which 
tie  eoufil  not  resist,  took  him  toward  the  river- 
biiik,  and  the  wood  behind  Marchmonl  Towers, 
o.ice  more,  for  the  lait  time  in  his  life,  perhaps, 
Iti 


he  went  down  to  that  lonely  ^Iiore.  He  went  to 
look  at  the  bleak,  unlovely  plare  which  had  been 
the  scene  of  his  betrothal.' 

It  was  not  that  he  liad  any  thousili't  of  meeting 
Olivia  Marchmonl;  he  had  dismiifsed  hci'  Irom  his 
mind  ever  since  his  last  visit  to  the  /oiicly  boat- 
house.  Whatever  the  niNs'ciy  of  her  life  might 
be,  her  secret  lay  at  th.j  bollom  of  a  black  depth 
which  the  impetuous  soldier  did  not  care  to  fathom. 
He  did  not  want  to  discc  ver  that  hidfous  secret. 
Tarnished  honor,  sl.ame,  faiseliood,  disgrace, 
lurked  in  tlie  obsciiiity  in  winch  .lohn  Alarch- 
mont's  widow  had  chosen  to  enshroud  her  life. — 
Let  them  rest.  It  was  not  for  him  to  drag  away 
the  curtain  that  sheltered  his  kinswoman  from  the 
world. 

He  had  no  thought,  therefore,  of  prying  into 
any  secrets  that  might  be  bidden  in  the  pavilion 
by  the  water.  The  fascination  that  lured  him  (o 
the  spot  was  the  memory  of  the  past.  He  could 
not  go  to  iMary's  grave;  but  he  went,  in  as  rev- 
erent a  spirit  as  tie  would  have  gone  thitlier,  lo 
the  scene  of  his  betrothal,  to  pay  his  farewell 
visit  to  the  spot  which  had  been  fort Vcr  hallowed 
by  the  confession  of  her^iiinocent  love. 

It  was  nearly  dark  when  he  got  to  the  river-side. 
Fie  w;ent  by  a  path  which  quite  avoided  the 
grounds  about  Marchmonl  Towers — a  narrow 
foot-path,  which  served  as  a  towing-path  some- 
times wtieti  some  black  barge  crawled  by  on 
its  way  out  to  the  open  sea.  To-night  tiie  river 
was  hidden  by  a  mist — a  white  fog — that  obscured 
land  and  water;  and  it  was  only  by  the  sound  of 
the  horses'  hoof's  that  Edw'ard  Arundel  had  warn- 
ing to  step  aside  as  a  siring  of  them  went  by,  drag- 
ging a  chain  that  grated  on  the  pebbles  by  tho 
river-side. 

'Why  should  the}'  say  my  darling  committed  su- 
icide.-' thought  Edward  .Arundel,  as  he  groped  his 
way  alftng  the  narrow  pathway;  'it  was  on  such 
an  evening  a<  this  that  she  ran  away  from  home. 
What  more  likely  than  that  she  lost  the  track  and 
wandered  into  the  river."  Oh,  my  own  poor  lost 
one,  God  giant  it  was  so!  God  grant  it  was  by 
His  will,  and  not  your  own  desperate  act,  that 
you  were  lost  to  mc  !' 

Sorrowful  as  the  thought  of  his  wife's  death 
was  to  him,  it  soothed  him  to  believe  that  that 
death  might  have  been  accidental.  There  was  all 
the  difTerence  between  sorrow  and  despair  in  the 
alternative. 

Wandering  ignoranlly  and  helplessly  through 
this  atituinnal  fog,  Edward  Arundel  found  himself 
at  the  boat-house  before  he  was  aware  of  its  vi- 
cinity. 

There  was  a  liulil  gleaming  from  the  broad 
north  wiinlow  of  the  painting-room,  and  a  slant- 
ing line  of  li;:ht  streamed  out  of  the  half-open 
door.  In  this  lighted  doorway  Edwaid  saw  the 
figure  of  a  girl — an  unkempt,  red-headed  girl,  with 
a  flat  freckled  face — a  girl  who  wore  a  lavender- 
cotton  piriafore  and  hobnailed  liools,  with  a  gooil 
deal  of  brass  about  the  leather  fronts,  and  a  re- 
dundancy of  rusty  leather  boot-lace  twisted  round 
the  ankles. 

The  young  man  rwnembered  having  seen  this 
girl  once  in  the  villtge  of  Kemberling.  She  had 
been  in  Mrs.  Weston's  service  as  a  diudge,  and 
was  supposed  to  have  received  her  education  itt 
the  Swampington  union. 

This  young  lady  was  ."upporting  herself  agairxt 
the  half-open  door,  with  her  arms  a-kimtio,  ai  d 
her  hands  planted  upon  her  hips,  in  humble  imilt^- 
tiun  of  Ihe  m;iliou9  wLout  she  hud  been  wont  tu 


12;-V  JOHN  MARCHMONT'S  LEGACY. 

see  lounging  at  their  coftage-doors  in  the  high  UriDneJ  maliciously  as  Mr.  Arundel  raised  the 
street  of  KemberJmg,  when  the  labors  of  the  day  light  above  his  head,  and  looked  about  him.  He 
were  done.         ,  ,     ,    ,  ^     _,  '        ,,  .     walked  in  and  out  of  the  two  rooms.     He  ^ared 


Edward  Arundel  started  at  the  sudden  appari- ^  at.the  obsolete  chairs,  the  rickety  tables,  the  di- 
tionot  this  damsel,  ,     ,     ,.        ^apidated  damask  curtains,  llappini;  every  now 

'Who  are  you  g.rl  ?  he  asked;  'and  what  brings  ^  and  then  in  the  wind  that  rushed  in  through  the 
you  to  this  place?  crannies  of  1,he  doors  and  windows.     He  looked 

He  trembled  as  he  spoke  A  sudden  agitation  here  and.theie,  like  a  man  bewildered;  much  to 
had  seized  upon  him,  which  he  had  no  power  to  ^  the  amusement  of  Miss  Bessy  Murrel,  who,  with 
account  for.  It  seemed  as  if  Providence  had  ;  her  arms  crossed,  and  her  elbows  in  the  palms  of 
brought  him  to  this  spot  to-night,  and  had  placed  ^  her  moist  hands,  followed  him  backward  and  for- 
tius Ignorant  country  girl  in  his  way  for  some  spe-  ^  ward  between  the  two  small  chambers, 
cial  purpose.  Whatever  the  secrets  of  this  place  ^  'f  here  was  some  one  living  here  a  week  aeo,' 
might  be,  he  was  to  know  them,  it  appeared,  since  ^  he  said;  'some  one  who  had  the  care  of  a—' 
he  had  been  led  here,  not  by  the  promptings  of  cu-  J  He  stopped  suddenly.  If  he  had  euessed  rightly 
riosity;  but  only  by  a  reverent  love  for  a  scene  <  at  the  dark  secret,  it  was  better  that  it  should  rt-- 
that  was  associated  with  his  dead  wife.  ;,  main   forever   hidden.     This  girl    was    perhaps' 

Who  are  you,  girl .'    he  asked  again.  J  more  ignorant  than  himself.     It  was  not  for  him 

'Ui  be  Bessy  Murrel,  Sir, 'the  damsel  answered;  ^  to  enlighten  her 
•some  on  'em  calls  me  "Wuk-us  Bet;"  and  I  be  i     <Do  you  know  if  any  body  has  lived  her  lately  ?' 
coom  here  to  cle-an  oop  a  bit.'  ;;he  asked  ■'        •'  •' 

'To  clean  up  what?'  ^  ^     Bessy  Murrel  shook  her  head. 

Ihepaa-intin  room.    There  s  a  de-al  o'moock,'     'Nobody  has  lived  here— not  that  oi  knows  of,' 

about,  and  aw  m  to  fettle  oop,  and  make  all  toidy  ',  she  replied ;  'not  to  take  their  victuals,  and  such 

agen  t  squire  gets  well.  ^loike.     Missus  brings  her  work,  down  sometimes. 

Are  you  all  alone  here  ?'  ;  and  sits  in  one  of  these  here  rooms,  while  Muster 

Allalo-an?    Oh  yes.  Sir.  ^  Poll   does   his   pictur'  paa-intin';    that's   all  oi 

•Have  you  been  here  long.-'  ;;  knows  of.' 

The  girl  looked  at  Mr.  Arundel  with  a  cunning;  Edward  went  back  to  the  painting-room,  and 
leer,  which  was  one  of  her  'wuk-us'  acquire- ;  set  down  his  candle.  The  mystery  of  those  empty 
™?A     J      u        i.  rc-      ,  /  chambers  was  no  business  of  his.     He  began  to 

Aw  ve  been  here  off  an  on  ever  since  t' squire  ^  think  that  his  cousin  Olivia  was  mad,  and  that 
keame,  she  said.  'There's  a  deal  o' cleanin' ^  her  outbursts  of  terror  and  agitation  had  been 
down   ere.  ,  ,   ,     ,    ,  ^  only  the  raving  of  a  mad  woman  after  all.  There 

J^dward  Arundel  looked  at  her  sternly;  but  <  had  been  a  great  deal  in  her  manner  during  the 
there  was  nothing  to  be  gathered  from  her  stolid  ;!  last  year  that  had  seemed  like  insanity.  The 
countenance  after  its  agreeable  leer  had  melted  ^  presence  of  the  child  might  have  been  purely  ar- 


away.  The  young  man  might  have  scrutinized 
the  hgure-head  of  the  black  barge  creeping  slowly 
past  upon  the  hidden  river  with  quite  as  mucli 
chance  of  getting  any  information  out  of  its  pla} 
of  feature. 

He  walked  past  the  girl  into  Paul  Marchmont'.' 
painting-room.  Miss  Bessy  Murrell  made  no  at- 
tempt to  hinder  him.  She  had  spoken  the  truth 
as  to  the  cleaning  of  the  place,  for  the  roon. 
smelled  of  soap-suds,  and  a  pail  and  scrubbing- 
brush  stood  in  the  middle  of  the  floor.  The  younp 
man  looked  at  the  door  behind  which  he  had 
heard  the  crying  of  the  child.  It  was  ajar,  and 
the  stone  stepss  leading  up  to  it  were  wet,  bearinu 
testimony  to  Bessy  Murrill's  industry. 


;  cidental;  and  his  cousin's  wild  vehemence  only  a 
/  paroxysm  of  insanity.  He  sighed  as  he  left  Miss 
;  Murrel  to  her  scouring.  The  world  seemed  out 
'of  joint;  and  he,  whose  energetic  nature  fitted 
'/  him  for  the  straightening  of  crooked  things,  had 
''  no  knowledge  of  the  means  by  which  it  might  be 
'  set  right. 

'Guod-by,  lonely  place,'  he  said;  'good-by  to 
'  the  spot  where  my  young  wife  first  told  me  of  her 
>love.' 

j|  He  walked  back  to  the  cottage,  where  the 
^bustle  of  jacking  and  preparation  was  all  over, 
land  where  Mr.  Morrison  was  entertaining  a  se- 
■  lect  party  of  friends  in  the  kitchen.  Early,  the 
next  morning  Mr.  Arundel  and  his  servant  left 


Edward  Arundel  took  the  flaming  tallow  candlef;  Lincolnshire;  the  key  of  Kemberling  Retreat  wa. 
from  the  table  in  the  painting-room  and  went  upf' eiven  up  to  the  landlord;  and  a  wooden  board, 

the  steps  into  the  pavilion.     The  girl  followed.    "  "      " 

but  she  did  not  try  to  restrain  him,  or  to  inter- 
fere   with    him.     She  followed   him    with    her 
mouth  open,  staring  at  him  after  the  manner  ofi' 
her  kind,  and  she  looked  the  very  image  of  rustic 
stupidity.  k  — '•■^ 

With  the  flaring  candle  shaded  by  his  left  hand.| 
Edward  Arundel  examined  the  two  chambers  in[;  CHAPTER  XXXL 

the  pavilion.     There  was  very  little  to  reward'' 

his  scrutiny.     The  two  small  rooms  were  bare|i  taking    it   quietly. 

and  cheerless.  The  repairs  that  had  been  exe-lj!  All  the  county,  or,  at  least,  all  that  part  of 
cuted  had  only  gone  so  far  a^  to  make  them  tol-|>  the  county  within  a  certain  radius  of  Marchmont 
erably  inhabitable,  and  secure  from  wind  and|;  Towers,  waited  very  anxiously  for  Mr.  Paul 
weather.     The  furniture  was  the  same  that  Ed-f?  Marchmont  to   make  some  move.     The    hoxse- 


flapping  above  the  dilapidated  trellis-work  of  (he 
porch,  gave  notice  that  the  habitation  was  to  be 
let. 


ward  remembered  having  seen  on  his  last  visit  tol;  whipping  business  had  givenj  quite  a  pk-aFant 
the  Towers:  for  Mary  had  been  fond  of  sitting  in-'  zest,  a  flavor  of  excitement,  a  das-h  of  what  it  is 
one  of  the  little  rooms,  looking  out  at  the  slowfi  the  fashion  nowadays  to  call  'sensation,' to  the 
river  ajii  the  trembling  rushes  on  the  shore.!:  wind-up  of  the  hunting-bieakfast.  Pcor  Paul's 
There  was  no  trace  of  recent  occupation  in  thtjUhrashing  bad  been  mere  lacy  jr.d  appetizing 
empty  jrooms,  no  ashe?  in  the  grates.     The  girll;  thsn  the  firest  olives  that  evf  r  grtw,  and  bis  late 


JOIIA  MAi.tUMO.NT'S  LECJAlY.  I'j 

};ur..-ts  looked  lorwurd  lo  u.  great,  deal  more,  ex-,  had  done  very  little  daoiage  .lo  tlie  artist's  llesh; 
Citemetit  and 'sensation'  before  the  business  was  but  it  had  slashed  away  his  manhood,  as  the 
done  with.  Of  coi.irse  Paul  Marchuioot  -would  ;  sickle  sweeps  the  flo\\ers  amidst  the  corn, 
do  something.  He  must  make  a  f^tir;  ai.d  thc';  He  could  never  look  up  again.  The  thought, 
sooner  he  made  it  the  lietler.  Matters  would 'of  ^oing  out  of  this  house  for  the  first*  time,  and 
have  to  be  explained.  People  expected  to  know  the  horror  ©f  confrontin?;  tlic  altered  faces  of  his 
thc  cause  of  Edward  Arundel's  enmity;  and  of ;  neighbors,  was  as  dreadful  to  him  as  the  aritici- 
course  the  new  master  of  the  Towers  would  sec  pation  of  that  awful  exit  from  the  Debtor's  Door, 
the  propriety  of  setting  himself  riglit  in  the  eyes  which  is  the  last  step  but  one  into  eternity,  must 
of  his  influential  acquaintance,  his  tenantrN',  and  be  to. the  coudenmed  criminr.l.  • 
retainers,  especially  if  he  contemplated  standing  >  «I  shall  go  abroad,'  he  said  to  his  mother,  when 
for  Swanipina;ton  at  the'next  general  election,  jhemade  his  appearance  in  the  western  drawing- 
This  was  what  people  said  lo  each  other.  The  ;room,  a  week  after  Edward's  departure.  'I  shall 
scene  at  the  hunting-breakfast  m'us  a  most  fertile  ;p;o  on  the  Continent,  mother;  I  ,have  taken  a  dis- 
topic  of  conversation.  It  was  almost  as  good  as  ;like  to  this  place  since  that  savage  attacked  me 
a  popular  murder,  and  furnished,  scandalous  par- ;  thc  other  day. 
agraphs  ml  inftmtu.n  for   the  provincial-  papers,  ■      Mrs.  .Marchmont  sighed. 

most  of  them  bcgiuning,  'It  is  understood—'  or  i  'It  wi.ll  seem  liard  to  lose  you,  Paul.,  now  that 
'It  has  been  whispered  ui  our  hearing  that — '  or '.you  are  rich.  You  were  so  constant  to  us  through 
'Rochefoucault  has  observed  that — '  Every  body  ;' a'll  our  poverty;  and  we  might  be  so  happy  to- 
cxpected  that  Paul  JNIarchmont  would  write  to  .'gcthcr  now. ' 

the  papers,  and  tltat  Edward  Arundel  would  j  The  artist  was  walking  up  and  down  the  room, 
answer  him  in  .the  papers;  and  that  a  brisk  and  ;  with  his  hands  in  the  pockets  of  his  braided  vel- 
slirring  warfare  would  be  carried  on  in  priivter's  ;  vet  coat.  He  knew  that  in  the  conventional  cos- 
ink — at  least.  But  no  line  written  by  either  of  ;tume  of  a  well-bred  gentleman  he  showed  to  a 
the  gentlemen  appeared  in  any  one  of  thc  county  i disadvantage  among  other  men;  and  he  afiected  d 
journals;  and  by  slow  degrees  it  dawned  upon  '  picturescjDe  aidd  artistic  stylo  of  dress,  whose 
))eople  that  there  was  no  further  amusement  to  brighter  hues  and  looser  outlines  lighted  up  his 
be  got  out  of  Paul's  chastisement,  and  that  the  ,  pale  face,  and-'gave  a  grace  to  his  spai'c  figure, 
master  of  the  Towers  meant  to  take  the  thing;  'You  think  it  vrorth  somethihg,  then,  m'other.^^' 
quietly,  and  to  swallow  thc  horrihle  outrage,  tak-^  he  said,  presently,  half  kneeling,  half  lounging 
ing  care  to  hide  any  wry  faces  he  made  during!  in  a  deep-cushioned  easy-chair  near  the  table  at 
thai»operation.  >  which  his  mother  sat.    "'You  think  our  money  is 

Yes;  Paul  Marchmont' let  the  matter  drop,  j  worth  something  to  us  .'  All  these  chairs  and  ta- 
The  report  was  circulated  that  he  was  very  ill,;  ^Ics,  this  great  rambling  house,  thc  .servants  who 
and  had  suffered  from  a  touch  of  brain-fever, ;  wait  upon  us,  and  the  carriages  v.-c  ride  in,  are 
which  kept  him  a  victim  to  incessant  delirium  J  worth  something,  are  they  not. ^  they  make  us  hap- 
uiitil  after  Mr.  Arundel  had  left  the  county.  This  >. pier,  I  suppose.  I  know  I  always  thought  such 
rumor  was  set  afloat  by  Mr.  Weston,  the  surgeon;!  things  made  up  the  sum  of  happiness  when  1  was 
and  as  he  was  the  only  per.son  adnfitted  to  his;  poor.  I  have  seen  a  hearse  going  away  from  a 
brother-in-law's  apartmont,  it  was  impossible  for ;  rich  man's  door,  carrying  his  "cherished  wife,  or 
any  one  to  contradict  his  assertion.  'his  only  son,   perhaps;  and   I've  thought,  "Ah! 

The  fox-hunting  squires  shrugged  their  shoul-  •  but  he  has  forty  thousand  a  year  !"  Ycu  ares  hap- 
dcrs,  and  I  am  sorry  to  sny  that  the  epithets  ;  pier  here  than  you  were  in  Charlotte  Street — eh; 
•ftound,'  'cur,'  'sncuk.'and  'mongrel,' were  more    mother.'' 

often  applied  to  Mr.'  Marchmont  than  was  con-  '.Irn  1  happier.''  exclaimed  Mrs.  Marchmont. 
sistcnt  with  Christian  feeling  on  the  part  of  the  'Need  you  ask  me  thc  question,  Paul.'  But  it  is 
gentlemen  who  uttered,  thern.  But  a  man  who  not  so  much  for  myself  as  for  your  sake  that  1 
can   swallow  a   sound    thrashing,    administered    value  all  this  grandeur.' 

upon  his  own  door-step,  has  to, contend  with  the  She  held  out  her  long  thin  liand,  which  wa-s 
prejudices  of  society,  and  must- take  the  conse- ;  covered  with  rings,  some  old-fashioned  and  com- 
quences  of  being  in  advance  of  his  age.  '  paratively  valueless,  others  lately  purchased  by 

8a,  while  his  new  neighbors  talked  about  him,  :  lier  devoted  son,  and  very  precious.  Thc  artist 
Paul  Marchnjont  lay  in  his  splendid  chamber,  ;  took  the  shrunken  fingers  in  his  own,  and  raised 
with  the  frisking  youths  and  maidens  staring  at ,  them  to  his  lips. 

him  all  day  long,  and  simpering  at  him  vvilh  'I'm  very  glad  that  I've  made  vou  happy,  mo- 
their  unchanging  faces,  until  he  grew  sick  at  thcr,'  he  said;  'that's  something  gained,  at  any 
heart,  and  begun  to  loatlie  all  this  new  grandeur,    rale' 

which  liad  so  delighted  him  a  little  time  ago.  He  He  left  the  fire-place,  and  walked  slowly  up  and 
no  longer  laughed  at  thc,  recollection  of  shabby  down  the  room,  slopping  now  and  then  to  loct  out 
Ctiarloite  yirccl,  lie  tlrcamcd  one  night  that  he  at  thc  wintry  sky,  or  the  flat  cxp.-^nse  of  turf  bc- 
was  back  again  in  the  old  bedroom,  with  tht;  low  it;  but  he  was  quite  a  ditlerelit  creature  to 
painted  deal  furniture,  and  the  hideous  paper  oq  that  which  he  had  been  before  Jiis  encounter  with 
the  walls,  and  that  thc  Mai-chmont  Towers  mag-    Edward  Arundel. 

nificence  had  been  only  a  feverish  vision;  and  he  What  was  it  worth,  this  fine  house,  with  the 
was  glad  to  be  back  in  that  familiar  place,  and  broad  flat  before  it.-  Nothing,  if  he  had  lost  the 
wns  sorry  on  awaking  to  Hud  that  Marchmont,  respect  and  consideration  of  his  ncighbons.  He 
'i'lwcrs  was  a  splendid  reality.  wanted  to  he  a  great  man  as  well  as  a  rich  one. 

Pheie  was  only  one  faint  red  streak  upon  his  He  wanted  admiration  and  flattery,  reverence  amt 
slioulilers;  for  the  tht'ashing  had  not  been  a  bru-  esteem;  not  from  poor  jicople,  whose  esteem  and 
(al  one.  It  was  disgrace  Idward  Arundel  had  !  admiration  were  scarcely  worth  having,  but  from 
wanted  to  iullict,  not  physical  pain,  the  common-,  wealthy  squire.s.  his  equals  or  his  superiors  by  hiith 
place  puni-:hn^cnt  with  which  a  man  coirects  his  and  fortune.  Ho  ground  his  teeth  at  the  thought, 
rrfra'tory  liorsc.     Th<;  lash  of  the  hunting-whip    of  hi.i  disgrace.     liVi  had  drunk  of  the^cup  of  tri- 


124 


JOHN  MARGHMONT'S  LKGAUf. 


umpli,  and  liad  tasted  U  e  very  wine  of  life;  and 
at  the  moment  vvhtn  that  cup  was  fullest  it  had 
been  snatched  away  Irom  liim  by  the  I'ulhless 
hand  of  his  enemy. 

Christmas  came,  and  gave  Paul  Marchmonl  a 
o-ood  opportiinily  of  playing  Ihe  country  };f  ntie- 
man  of  the  nldcn  time.  NViiat  was  the  cosi  cf 
a  couple  of  bullocks,  a  few  hojisheads  of  ale,  ami 
a  wagon-load  of  coal*,  if  bv  ^ueh  a  'sacrifice  tli*- 
master  of  the  Towers  could  sccun-  for  hiui'<clf 
the  admiration  due  to  a  [luiilic  benefactor. '  Paul 
gave  cnrte  hlanche  to  Ihe  (>ld  servants;  and  tents 
Avere  erectrd  on  the  lawn,  and  monstrous  hotl(il•e^ 
blazed  briskly  in  the  frosty  air;  while  the  popu- 
lace, who  would  have  accepted  the  bounties  oi  a 
new  Nero  fresh  from  the  burning  of  a  mudern 
Rome,  drank  to  the  health  of  their  benefactor, 
and  warmed  themselves  by  the  imlimited  ewii- 
sumplion  of  strontc  beer. 

Mrs.  Marchmont  and  her  invalid  daughter  as- 
sisted Paul  in  his  attempt  to  regain  the  popu- 
larity he  had  lost  upon  the  steps  of  the  western 
terrace.  The  two  women  disti'ihuied  square 
miles  of  llann.el  and  blanketing  among  g'eedy 
claimants;  they  vjaw  scarlet  cloaks  ami  \nAn'- 
bonnets  to  old  women;  they  gave  an  insipid  feast 
upon  temperance  principles  to  the  children  of  tlie 
National  Jr^chools.  'And  thev  had  Oieir  reuaid: 
for  people  began  to  saj  that  this  PhuI  Marclimont 
was  a  very  noble  fellov/  afier  all,  by  .Tri\e,  Sir! 
and  that  fellow  Arundel  must  linvp  been  in  the 
wrong.  Sir;  and  no  doubt  Marchmont  had  his  nvvn 
reasons  for  not  resenting  the  luilragi-,  y-ir;  and  a 
great  deal  more  to  the  'ike  elft-et. 

After  this  roasting  of  the  two  bullocks  the  wind 
changed     altogether.       Mr.    iMa-etiinotit    gave    a 
great  dinner-party  upon    New- Year's   Day.      He 
sent  out  thirty  invitations,  and    liad  only  two  re- 
fusals.    So  the  long  dining-room   was  tij^ed  with 
all  the  notabilities  of  the  district,  and  Paul  held 
liis  head  up  once  more,  and  rejoired  in  his  own 
grandeur,     .^fter  all,  one  horsewhipping  can  not 
annihilate  a  uiaii   witti    a    tine   estatvs   ai.d  eleven 
thousand    a    year,    if  he   knows   fiow   to   nmke   a 
«.7plash  with  his  monf^'.    Olivia  Marchmont  shared 
fill  none  of  the   festiv.Qls   that   were    held.     Her 
jfatVrer  wafe  very  ill  (hi*   winter;  and    s'ne  spent  a 
good^iieal  of  her  time  ar  hjwampirigton  Rectory, 
.  sittinguR  Hubert  Arunder.^  toom,  ;ind  r-eading  to 
iliim.     Buit  her  presence  broiuigttJ.  Tcry  little  coin- 
,iort  to  the  si«-L  juan:  /or  t'nfre  .vr^ts  something  in 
•  his  daughter''s  toafiner  tiiat  filled  U'm)  with  inex- 
pressible terror;  Auii   lie   ivould  We  iQ<r  hours  to- 
.gether  watching  hci'  blank  face,  and  .Vi'.otidering 
at   its  horrible   rigifia*^-,     W?iat   was   ji?     'A'hat 
was  the  dreaful    secret   which   bad   Iransfbi'iised 
x'Jiis  woman'     He  tormented  hirnself  nerpe'uaiilvy 
v/ivh   this   question,  -'out    li<-    could    imagine   no 
answer  Lo  it. 

■<J)l!via 'MarchmoBi  had  never  teen  the  most 
'  3rv,e!y  orrdelis^htful  .^f  companions..  K  she  could 
VaNC  been  Edward  .Arundel !s  wife,  f.Jt.p.  would 
.  ilia^e  been  the  noblest  and  truest  wife  Cnat  «3ver 
.^merged  'her  icentity  into  that  of  another,  and 
'  lived  upon  the  reftacted  glory  of  her  husband's 
,\  triumphs. 

To  anj'  one  who  'iiad   known   Olivia's  secret 

'   there  could  have   been  no  sadder  spectacle  than 

this  of  her  decay.     The  mind  and  body  decayed 

together,  bound  by  a  mysterious  sympathy.     All 

womanly  roundness  disappeared   from   the  spare 

\    figure,. and  Mrs.  Marchmont's  black  dresses  hung 

about  her  in   loose,  fold"..    Met    Jong.  dead.  hl:>clv 

!.     tair  Wis  piuhcd  ai^ayfiom  lici    thin  face,  and 


twisted  into  a  licavy  krot  at  the  hack  of  her 
head.  Every  charm  that  she  had  ever  possessed 
was  gone.  The  cddest  women  generally  retain 
some  traits  of  their  lost  beauty,  some  faint  re- 
flection of  the  siui  that  has  gone  down  to  light 
up  the  soft  tw  flight  of  age,  and  even  glimmer 
tlii-ough  the  miooan  of  death.  But  this  Wdman 's 
face  lelaiiicd  no  lokeri'  of  the  past.  No  empty 
tiull,  with  shattered  bulwarks  cinftibled  by  the 
,  fuiy  of  fierce-  >p,;i--.  ea<t  on  a  desert  shore  ti>  lol 
aiiO  peris!;  thtie  was  f  vei  more  coinptete  a  wreck 
than  she  was.  Upon  her  face  and  figure,  in  eveiy 
look  and  gisins'e,  in  the  tone  ol  every  word  she 
spoke,  thei'ft  wa>an  awful  something,  worse  than 
the  seal  of  death.  Litile  by  little  the  miserable 
truth  dawned  upon  liuhei  t  Aiundel  His  daughter 
wa*-  mad  !  fie  krfew  ihin:  hnl  he  kepi  Ihe  dread- 
ful knowledge  hidden  in  his  own  breast;  a  hide- 
ous secret,  w  hosc  weight  oppressed  him  like  an 
.  actual  bui'dm.  Me  kep:  the  secret;  for  it  would 
have  seemed  to  him  the  mostJUiiel  treason  against 
'  his  daughtei-  to  have  confessed  his  discovery  to 
any  living  ci-eature,  unless  it.  should  .he  ahsolntel) 
necessary  to  do  so.  _  iMeai'."\hiie  he  set  himself  lo 
watch  Olivia,  detaining  bei-  at  the  Rectory  for  a 
week  t'igether.  in  order  that  he  nilglil  see  her  m 
I  all  mood>,  lU'.der  all  phases. 

lie  found    that   there  were  no  violent   or  ouf- 

raL'Cotis    (^v.ideriees    of   Ibis   mental    decay.     The 

mind  had  gi\efi  way  luider  the  perpetual  jiressure 

of  one  set  of  thoughts.     Hnherl   Arutidel,  in  his 

izriorancp    of  his    daughter's    secrtts,   could    not 

discover  ihe   cai»se  of   lier  decadence:   but   that 

cause  was  very  simple.    •  If  the  body  is  a  won^ei- 

^  fui   and    complex    machine    which    must    not    he 

jiampered    with— surely   if  this    is   so,    that   still 

'  more   complex    machine,   the  mind,   must   need 

'  careful  treatment.      If  such  and  such  a  course  of 

,  diet  is  fatal   to  the  ])Cidy's  health,  may  not  some 

thoughts   be   ecjually   fatal   to  the    health   of   the 

brain  .'.inav  not  a  nionoton(tu«  recurrence  of  the 

;  same  ideas  be  above  all  injurious  ?     If  by  reason 

of  the  peculiar  natiire  of  a   man's   labor  he  uses 

/'one   limb    oi'   one    muscle   luoie    tlian    the    lesl, 

;  slratice  losses  rise  up  lo  testify  to  that   ill-usage, 

;  the  idle  limbs  wither,  ai:d  tiie  haVmonious  per- 

;  fection  of  Nature  gives  plr.ce  to  deformity.     So 

'  the    brain,    perpetually    pressed    upon,    fortvtr 

strained  to  its  utmost  tension   by  tlie  ■\\fi\hou\f 

.  su(*.cession   of    thoughts,    becomes    crooked    and 

'  one-=;ided.  always  leanii^ig   one  way,  continuallj' 

tripping  up  Hie  wretcked  thinkei-. 

'      .lohii  Marchmont's   widow  had  only  one  set  of 

'  ideas.     On  every  subject  but  tliat  (mc  which  in- 

'  volvcd    Edward    Anuidel    and    his  lortunes   her 

memory  had  decayed.     She  asked   her  father  Die 

fame  questions — commonplace  questions  relating 

■  ic  .liis  own  comfo;'t,  or  to  simple  household  niat- 

teiSi.--twen1y  times  a   day,  always  forgetting  that 

'  he  ha.«  ari.swered  her.     .She  had  that  impatience 

'  as  to  the  ,p.iw>H,i.g«  of  time  which  is  one  of  the  most 

painful   ftign.s  .o^  ^:^:-.n>j}ess.     She  looked    at   her 

wafch  ten  limes  aoi  -Lfuir,  o/jd  would  wander  out 

into  the  cheerless  gaa-.de,ii,  vijii^jiivent  to  the  bitter 

w«iather,  in   order  to  look  at  V.l^  /C^o/;k  in  the 

diurch-steeple,  under  the  impi-ession4,h.,t,  her  own 

,  wa-lcii,  and  her  fa«Jier's,  and  all  tjic  Haifi-^^es^tv^. 

in  .the  houee,  were  slow. 

She  was  sometimes  restless,  taking  up  o«i« 
occupation  after  another,  to  thi'ow  all  aside  with 
-  e(|ual  impatience,  and  sometimes  immobile  for 
hours  together.  Hut  as  she  was  never  violent, 
never  in  any  way  unreasonable,  Hubrif  Arundel 
had  nut  the  hcait  lo  call  science  to  his  aid,  c<ud 


JOHN    MARCMMoM"S   LKGACY.  IJi 

,1(1  helray  Jicr  !»ecrcl.  The  IhougJil  tlial  liis  ,  and  go  on  so,  lliat  one's  obliged  (o  saj  u II  sorts 
danghter'slnahfiy  might  be  cured  never  cnlcred  of  dreadful  things  about  Mary's  cousin  for  the 
his  mind  as  within  Ihc  range  of  fiossibijity.  There  sake  of  peace.  Uut,  really,  when  1  saw  him  one 
WHS  nothing  to  cure;  no  delusions  to  he  exorcised  day  in  Ke.mberling,  wjth  a  black  velvet  shooting- 
by  medic:il  treatment;  no  violent  ragari&s  to  be  coat,  and  -his  beautiful  smooth  wliite  hair  and 
held  in  check  by  drugs  and  nostrums.  The  auburn  muHtsiehe,  I  thought  hint  most  interesting, 
powerful  iiitellcct  had '  decayed ;  its  lorce  and  '  Atnl  so  would  you,  Helinda,  if  >on  wtfren't  so 
clearness  were  gone.  IS'o  drugs  ttuit  ever  grew  iwrnpped  up  in  that  doleful  brother  of  mine.' 
upon  this  ear'li  could  restore  that  which  was  lost.  '  Whereupon,  of  course,  Miss  Lawford  had  been 
This  Mas  the  conviction  which  kept  the  rector  eoinpelled  to  dechirc  that  she  was  not  'wrapped 
.■•ilcnt.  It  would  have  given  him  unutterable  tip'  iti  Hdward,  whatexer  state  of  feeling  that 
anguish  to  have  told  his  duughter's  secret  l?)  any  obsctire  ph^.-c  miiiht  signif\ ;  and  to  express,  by 
living  beitig;  but  he  would  have  endured  that  the  vehemence  of  her  denial,  that,  if  any  thing, 
misery  if  she  could  ha\c.  iieeti  betiefited  thereby,  she  rather  detested  Mi^s  Artindel's  brotheV.  lU- 
llc  mo>i1  firmly  believed  that  she  could  not,  and  the-hy,  did  you  ever  know  a  young  ladv  who 
that  her  state  was  irremediable.  could"  understand  the   admiration   aroused 'iti  the 

•My  poor  giill"  he  thouuht'lo  liimsdf:  Miuw  hceast  (d"  other  young  ladies  for  that  most  un- 
proiid  1  was  of  her  ten  yc.-iis  ;\go !  I  can  do  interesting  object,  a  hroihir^  Or  a  gentleman 
nothing  for  her;  n()lliinge\cepl  to  h)ve  and  cherish  w  ho  could  enter  with  any  warmth  of  s\mpathv 
her,  atid  hide  her  humiliation  rrmu  tlie  world.'  into  his  frictid's  feelings  respecting  the  auburn 
Uut  Hubert  Arundel  was  not  allowed  to  do  ,  tresses  or  the  Grecian  nose,  of  'a  sisterr'  fJe- 
eveu  this  much  for  the  daughter  lie  loved;  for'linda  l/awford,  1  say,  knew  something  of  the 
when  Olivia  had  been  with  him  a  little  more  '  story  of  Mary  Arundel's  death,  and  she  implored 
than  a  week,  Taul  Marchmont  and  his  tnothcr  her'father  to  Tcject  all  hospitalities  oflered  by 
drove  over  to  Swampington  Kectory  one  morning    l^aul  Marchmont. 

and  carried  her  away  with  ihcni.  The  rector'  '"Sou  won't  go  to  the  Towers,  papa  dear .-'  she 
then  saw  for  tlie  first  time  that  his  once  strong-  said,  with  her  hands  clasped  upon  her  father's 
minded  daught.r  »as  cumpletely  tiinler  the  do-  arm,,  her  cheeks  kindling,  and  her  eyes  filling 
niinioii  (d"  these  two  people,  and  that  they  knew  with' tears  as  she  spoke  to  him;  'you"  won't  go 
the  tiature  of  her  malady  (piite  as  well  as  he  di<l.  and  »it  at  I'aul  MarcliiiKnit's  tabic,  and  drink 
l)e  resisted  her  rettirn  to  the  To\Vers;  but  his  his  wine,  and  shake  hands  with  him.'  I  know 
resistance  was  tiseb  s*.  Siio  submitted  herself  that  he  had  something  to  do  with  Marv  Arundel's 
uilliiigiy  to  her  new  friends,  declaring  that  she  death.  He  had,  ii.deed,  papa.  1  don't  mean 
was  belier  in  their  house  than  any  where  else.  any   thing    that    the    world   calls  i-rinie;    1    don't 

\N  bile  the.  master  of  the  Towers  reasserted  his  mean  any  act  of  open  violence.  But  he  was 
gr:indeur.  and  made  s!upcr>(lous  ellbrts  to  regain  cruel  to  "her,  papa;  lie  was  cruel  to  her.  He 
tlie  ground  he  had  lost,  E.lvvard  Arundel  wan-  tortured  her  and  tormented  her  until  she— '  The 
dered  far  away  in  the  depths  of  Brittany,  travel-  girl  j'auscd  tor  a  moment,  and  her  voice  fnllcied 
ing  on  f>ot,  and  making  himself  familiar  with  a  little.  'Oh,  how  I  wish  that  1  had  known  her, 
(he  simple  peasants,  who  were  ignorant  of  his  papa,'  she  cried,  presently,  'that  I  might  have 
troubles.  He  had  sent  Mr.  Morrison  down  to  stood  by  her  inid  comforted  her  all  through  that 
IJangerifield  with  the  greater  part  of  his  lutgage;  sad  time!' 

but  he  had'n'it  the  hearl  to  go  back  himself— -yet  The  major  looked  down  at  his  datighter  with  a 
a  while.  He  was  al'raid  of  his  mother's  sympa-  tender  smile— a  smile  that  was  a  little  significant 
(hy,  and  he  went  away  into  the  lonely  Breton  perhaps,  but  full  of  love  and  admiration, 
villages  to  try  and  cure  himself  of  his  great  grief  'You  would  have  stood  by  Arundel's  poor  little 
fjefore  he  began  life  again  as  a  s(ddier.  it  was  wife,  my  dear :'  he  said.  'You  would  stand  hv 
ji^seless  for  him  to  strive  against  his  vocation,  her  mov-,  if  she  were  ulive,  and  needed  your 
Nature  had  made  him  a  soldier,  and  nothing  eisp;    friendship  .=  ' 

;jnd  wliei,cver  there  was  a  good  cause  t©  be  '1  would  indeed,  papa,'  Miss  Lawford  vn- 
(oij^iht  for  his  pli,ice  WA-i  on  the  b;vttle-ficld.  .swered,  resolutely. 

'         'I   believe   it,   my   dear;  I  bplieve  it  with  all 

-, ^^^ my  lifart.     You  are  a  good  girl,  my  Linda;  you 

are  a  noble  girl.     You  are  as  good  as  a  son  to  tne, 
my  dear.' 
("HAPTKR   XX\H,  Major  |,awford  was  silent   for  a   few  minutes. 

Mis»  I  swFOKu  si-KAK«  HKR  Mivn,  hoidjiig  |)is  daiighfcr  iu  his  ifrm?  and  pressing  his 

lips  upon  her  broad  forehead. 
Ma.ioii  IjAwiord  and   his  blue-eyed  daughter*        'You  are  fit  to    be    a   soldier's  daughter,  m\ 
were  not  among  those  guests   who  accepted  I'aul    darling.'  he  said,  '  or — or  a  soldier's  wife.' 
M.'»rchmont's  princely  hospitalities    Relinda  Law-        He  kissed   her  once  more,  and   then   left  her 
ford  bad  never  heard  the  story  of  Kdward's  lost   sighing  thoughtfully  as  he  went  awav. 
bride  as   he   himself  could    have   told    it;  but  she        This  is   how   it    was   that  neither  Major  Law- 
had  heard  an  imperfect  version   of  the  sorrowful    Tord  nor  any  of  his  family  were  present  at  fliose 
history   from    Letitia,  and   that    young   lady  had    splendid  entertainments  which  Paul  .Marchmont 
informed  her  friend  of  Kdward's  animus  against    gave  to  his  new  friends.     Mr.  Marchmont  knew 
the  new  master  of  the  Towers.  almost  as  well  as  the  Lawfords  Ihemselxfs  why 

'The  poor  dear  foolish  hoy  will  insist  upon  they  did  not  come,  nud  the  absence  of  them  at 
thinking  that  Mr.  Marchmont  was  at  the  bottom  his'elittering  board  made  his  bread  bitter  to  liim 
..f  .t  I'll,'  she  had  said,  in  a  contidential  chat  and  his  wine  tasteless.  He  wanted  these  |>«oplc 
iL'UL  liks\hi.i-jf ,  'somehow  or  other;  but  wlicther  as  much  a^  the  others— more  than  the  others 
lie  vvaiJ,  or  wlieli.or  l.r  wasn't,  I'm  sure  \  can 'I  perhaps;  for  they  had  hceii  Fxlward  Arundel's 
^•^y  But  if  one  sltr-mpl^  to  Ink*"  Mr,  Msich-  friend's;  ;.nd  he  wanted  llfrm  to  turn  their  harks 
luonl's  jtatl  with  Edwjid.hr  doc*  g' t  'n  vji.dcnl   upon   llic  young  man,  and  join  in   llic  general 


im  JOHN  xMAtiCHft.ON"J"S  LEG  AC  i*. 

outcry  against  his  violenco  nnd  brutality.  The  deuce  to  have  prevcnlt-.d  all  lhi>;  and  then  lie, 
absence  of  M;iior  l^viwford  at  the  ligliled  ban-  I'aiil,  would  have  been  slill  in  Charlotte  Street, 
»|net-table  toniiented  this  modern  rich  man  as  Filzroy  Square,  patiently  waitin;:  for  a  friendly 
the  pre.sence  of  Mordecai  at  the  jra^e  tormented  lift  upon  the  high  road  of  life.  _  Nobody  could  say 
llaman.  It  was  not  enough  that  all  the  others  thsu  he  had  ever  been  otherwise  than  palieni. 
should  come  if  thes-e  staid  ;iway,  and  by  their  Nobody  could  say  that  he  had  ever  intruded  hini- 
absencc  tacitly  testified  to  their  contempt  for  f  he  self  upon  his  rich  cousins  at  the  Towers,  or  had 
master  of  the  Towers.  'jpc"  heard  to  speculate  upon    his  possible  inher- 

He  met  Belinda  somelinu>.«  on  horseback  with  iiance  of  tli'i  estate:  or  that  he  had,  in  short, 
the  old  grey-headed  groom  behind  her,  a  fearless  done  anything  but  that  which  the  best,  truest, 
young  Amazon,  hreastinji  the  January  winds,  most  c^onscieutious  and  disinterested  of  mankind 
■with  her  blue  eyes  b'parkliug,  and  her  auburn  hair  ;!  should  do. 

blowing  away  Irom  her  candid  face;  he  met  her  In  the  course  of  that  bleak,  frosty  January,  Mr. 
and  looked  out  at  her  from  the  luxurious  ba-  Marchmont  sent  his  mother  and  his  sister  Lavinia 
rouchc  in  which  it  was  his  pleasure  to  loil  by  his  to  make  a  call  at  the  Grange.  The  Grange  peo- 
molher's  side,  half  buried  among  soft  furry  rugs  pie  had  never  calle^  upon  Mrs.  Marehniont;  but 
and  sleek  leopard-skins,  making  the  chilly  at-  Paul  did  not  allow  any  flimsy  ceremonial  law  to 
mosphere  through  which  he  rode  odorous  with  ;stand  in  his  way  when  he  had  a  purpose  to 
llie  scent  of  perfumed  hair,  and  smiling  over  '  achieve.  So  the  ladies  went  to  the  Grange  and 
cruelly  delicious  criticisms  in  rewly-cut  reviews,  were  politely  received;  for  Miss  Lawford  and  her 
He  looked  out  at  this  fearless  girl,  whose  friends  mother  were  a  great  deal  too  innocent  and  noble- 
so  obstinately  stood  by  Edward  Arundel;  and  minded  to  imagine  that  these  pale-faced,  deli- 
the  cold  cotitempt  upon  Miss  Lawford 's  face  cut  cate-looking  women  could  have  had  any  part, 
him  more  keenly  than  the  sharpest  wind  of  that  either  directly  or  indirectly,  in  that  cruel  Ircat- 
bitter  January.  ;  mcnt   which  had    driven   Edward's   young  wife 

Then  he  took  counsel  v/ilh  his  womankind,  .  from  her  home.  Mrs.  Marchmont  and  Mrs.  VVes- 
nol  tellin'  them  his  thoughts,  iears,  doubts;  or ;  ton  were  kindly  received,  therefore;  and  in  a  lit- 

^islit^ it^  was   not   his    habit    to   do  that — ;but  ,  tie  conversation  wMlh  Belinda  about  birds,  and 

takiii"- //leir  ideas,  and  only  telling  them  so  much  •  dahlias,  and  worsted-work,  and  the  most  inno- 
as  it  was  necessary  for  them  to  know  in  order  cent  subjects  imaginable,  the  wily  Lavinia  con- 
that  they  might  be  useful  to  him.  Paul  March- ;  trived  to  lead  up  to  Miss  Lelitia  Arundel,  and 
mont's  fife  was  regulated  by  a  few  rules,  so  sim-;  thence,  by  the  easiest  onversationaLshort  cut,  to 
pie  that  a  child  might  have  learned  them;  indeed,';  Edward  and  his  lost  wife.  Mrs.  Weston- was 
1  regret  to  say  that  some  children  are  very  apt  !  obliged  to  bring  her  cambric  handkerchief  out  of 
pupTls  in  that  school  of  philosophy  to  which  the  her  muff  when  she  talked  about  her  cousin  Mary; 
master  of  Marchmont  Towers  belonged,  and  |  but  she  was  a  clever  woman,  and  she  had  taken 
cause  astonishment  to  their  elders  by  the  preco-^  to  heart  Paul's  pet  maxim  about  the  folly  of  nn- 
city  of  their  intelligence.  Mr.  Marchmont  migbt;  necessary  lies;  and  she  was  so  candid  as  entirely  to 
have  inscribed  upon  a  very  small  scraj)  of  parch-;;  disarm  Miss  Lawfordj  v/ho  had  a  school-girlish 
meni  the  moral  maxims  by  which  he  regulated;  notion  that  every  kind  of  hypocrisy  and  falsehood 
hisdealin"-s  with  mankind.  '  was   outwardly  visible  in    a  servile  and  slavish 

'Always  conciliate,'  said  this  philosopher,  manner.  She  was  not  upon  her  guacd  against 
•Never  tell  an  unnecessary  lie.  Be  agreeable  those  practiced  adepts  in  the  arts  of  deception,' 
and  generous  to  those  who  serve  you.  N.  B.  No  who  have  learned  to  make  that  subtle  admixture 
good  carpenter  would  allow  his  tools  to  get  of  ttuth  and  falsehood  which  defy  detection,  like 
r.isty.  Make  yourself  master  of  the  opinions  of :  some  fabrics  in  whose  woof  silk  and  cotton  are 
others,  but  hold  your  own  tongue.  Seek  to  ob-  so  cunningly  blended,  that  only  a  practiced  eye 
tain  the  maximum  of  enjoyment  with  the  mini-;  can  discover  the  inferior  material, 
mum  of  risk.'  •       '      So  when   Lavinia  dried  her  eyes  and  put  her 

Such  golden  saws  as  these  did  Mr.  Marchmont  :  handkerchief  back  in  her  mulf,  and  said,  betwixt 
make  for  his  own  especial  guidance;  and  he  hoped    lau^ghing  and  crying, 

to  pass  smoothly  onward  upon  the  railway  of  life,  'Now  you  know,  my  dear  Miss  Lawford,  jou  ■ 
riding  in  a  first-class  carriage,  on  the  greased  ;  musn't  think  that  1  would  for  a  moment  pretend 
wheels  of  a  very  easy  conscience.  As  for  any  ^  to  be  sorry  that  my  brother  has  come  into  this 
unfortunate  fellow-travelers  pitched  out  of  the  ■' fortune.  Of  course  any  such  pretense  as  that 
carria^-e-window  in  the  course  of  the  journey,  or  would  be  ridiculous,  and  quite  useless  into  the 
left  lo°nely  and  helpless  at  desolate  stations  on  ;  bargain,  as  it  isn't  likely  any  body  would  believe 
the  way,  Providence,  and  not  Mr.  Marchmont, '  me.  Paul  is  a  dear,_kind  creature,  the  best  of 
was  responsible  for  Ikeir  welfare.  Paul  had  a  ;  brothers,  the  most  atiectionate  of  sons,  and  dc- 
•  high  appreciation  of  Providence,  and  was  fond  of  |  serves  any  good  fortune  that  could  fall  to  his  lot: 

talkin'^ very  piously,  as  some  people  said;  very  -  but  I  am  truly  sorry  for  that  poor  little  girl.     I 

iaipiously,  as  others  secretly  thought — about  the^am  truly  sorry,  believe  me,  Miss  Lawford;  and  I 
inestimable  Wisdom  which  governed  all  the  af-  only  regret  that  Mr.  Weston  and  I  did  ^ot  come 
fairs  of  this  lower  world.  Nowhere,  according  to  Kemberliug  sooner,  so  that  I  might  have  been 
to  the  artist,  had  the  hand  of  Providence  been  '  a  friend  to  the  poor  little  thing;  for  then,  you 
more  clearly  visible  than  in  this  matter  about ;  know,  I  might  have  prevented  that  foolish  runa- 
Paul's  poor  Mtle  cousin  Ma'y-  11"  Providence  '  way  match,  out  of  which  almost  aljl  tlio  poor 
had  intended  Jolui  Marchuiout's  daughter  to  be  a  child's  troubles  arose.  Yes,  Miss  Lawford;] 
happv  bride,  a  happy  wife,  the  prosperous  mis-  '  wish  I  hud  been  able,  to  befriend  that  unhappy 
tress  of  that  stately  habitation,  why  all  that  sad  ;  child,  although,  by  my  so  doing  J'aul  would  have 
business  of  old  Mr.'Arundel's  sudden  illness,  Ed-  ^  been  kept  out  of  the  fortune  he  now  enjoys— for 
i\ard's  hurried  journey,  the  railway  accident,  and  :  some  time,  at  any  rate.  1  say  for  some  time,  bc- 
H II  the  complications  that  had  thereupon  arisen  ?  i  cause  T  do  riot  believe  that  Mary  Marchmont 
Nothing  would  have  been  easier  Ihan  fur  Pro\i- ,  would  ha^c  lived  lo  be  old  tuiderllie  happiest  cir- 


JOHN  MARCHMONT'S  LEGACY. 


1'^: 


rumsilaiirej.  Her  mollier  »lIeJ  very  young;  and  ; 
her  i'athtr,  and  her  lather's  father,  were  con-  ' 
sumptlve.'  \ 

Then  Mrs.  Weston  took  occasion,  incidentally, 
of  course,  to  allude  to  her  hrother's  goodncs-s; 
but  even  then  she  was  on  her  guard,  and  tcok 
care  not  to  say  too  much. 

'The  worst  actors  are  Ihoje  who  overact  their  \ 
parts.'  That  was  another  of  Paul  Marchniont's  ' 
golden  maximi.  * 

'1  don't  know  what  my  brother  may  be  to  the  ; 
rest  of  the  world,'  Lavinia  said,  'but  1  know  how  ' 
jiood  he  is  to  those  who  belong  to  him.     I  should 
be  ashamed  to  tell  you  all  he  has  done  for  Mr. 
Weston   and   me.     He    pave    me   this   cashmere 
shawl  at  the  beginning  of  the  winter,  and  a  set  of 
sables  fit  for  a  duchess;  though   I  told  him  they 
were  not  at  all  the  thing  for  a  village  surgeon's 
wife,  who  keeps  only  one  lervant  and  dusts  her  ;. 
own  best  parlor. '  ; 

And  Mrs.  Marchmont  talked  of  her  son.  with 
no  Joud  enthusiasm,  hut  with  a  tone  of  (luict  con- 
viction that  was  worth  any  money  to  Paul.  To 
have  an  innocent  person,  some  one  not  in  the  se- 
cret, to  play  a  small  part  in  the  comedy  of  his 
life,  was  a  desideratum  with  the  artist.  His 
mother  had  always  been  this  person,  this  uncon- 
scious actor,  instinctively  falling  into  the  action 
of  the  play,  and  shedding  real  tpars,  and  smiling 
actual  smiles — the  most  useful  assistant  to  a  great 
schemer. 

IJut  during  the  whole  of  the  visit  nothing  was 
said  as  to    Paul's  conduct    toward  his  unhappy' 
cousin;  nothing  v/as  said  cither  to  praise  or  to  ex- ' 
culpate;   and    when    Mrs.    Marchmont   and    her 
daughter  drove  away  in  one  of  the  new  ecpiipages 
which  Paul  had  selected  for  his  mother,  they  left 
only  a  vague  impression  in  I'elinda's  breast.  She 
didn't  quite  know  what  to  think.     These  people  . 
were  so  fr«nk  and  candid,  they  had  spoken  of 
Paul  with  such  real  all'ection,  that  it  was  almost 
impossible   to    doubt  them.      Paul    Marchmont 
might  be  a  bad   man,  but  his  mother  and  sister 
loved  him,  and  surely  they  were  ignorant  of  his 
wickedness. 

Mrs.  Lawford  troubled  herself  very  little  about ' 
this  unexpected  morning  call.  She  was  an  ex- 
cellent, warm-hearted,  domestic  creature,  and 
thought  a  great  deal  more  about  the  grand  ((ues- 
lion  as  to  whether  she  should  have  nev/  damask 
curtains  for  the  drawing-room,  or  send  the  old 
ones  to  be  dyed;  or  whether  she  should  withdraw 
her  custom  from  the  Kemberling  grocer,  whose 
'best  black'  at  four  and  sixpence  was  really  now 
so  very  inferior;  or  whether  Belinda's  summer 
silk-dress  could  be  cut  down  into  a  frock  for  Isa- 
bella to  wear  in  the  winter  evenings — than  about 
the  rights  or  wrongs  of  that  story  of  the  hofe- 
M'hipping  which  had  been  administered  to  Mr. 
Marchmont. 

'I'm  sure  tho«c  Marclimont  Towers  people 
•ccm  very  nice,'  my  dear,  the  lady  said  to  Ue- 
linda,  'and  I  really  wish  your  papa  would  go  and 
dine  there.  You  know  I  like  him  to  dine  out  a 
good  deal  in  the  winttr,  Linda;  not  that  [  want 
to  save  the  hou.sekeeping  money,  only  it  is  so 
diflicult  to  vary  the  dinners  for  a  man  who  has 
been  in  the  army,  and  has  had  mess-dinners  and 
a  Kronch  cook.' 

But  Belinda  stuck  fatt  to  her  colors.  She  was 
a  soldier's  daughter,  as  her  fatlier  sriid,  and  she 
was  almost  as  good  as  a  son.  The  major  meaDt 
this  latter  remark  for  very  high  praise;  for  the 
great  grief  of  his  life  hod  been  th«  want  of  a  boy's 


brave  face  at  his  tire-side.  She  was  as  good  as  a 
son;  that  is  to  say,  she  was  t>ra>er  and  more  oui- 
spoken  than  most  women,  although  she  was  femi- 
nine and  gentle  withal,  and  by  no  means  strong- 
minded.  She  wouW  liave  fainted,  perhaps,  al 
the  first  sight  of  blood  upon  a  lialtle-field:  bui 
she  would  have  hied  to  death  with  the  calm  hf- 
roism  of  a  martjr  rather  than  have  been  false  to 
a  noble  cause. 

'I  think  papa  is  quite  right  not  to  go  to  iMbrch- 
mont  Towers,  mamma,'  she,  said;  'the  artful 
minx  omitted  to  state  tliat  it  was  by  reason  of 
her  entreaties  her  father  had  staiil  awa}.  'I  think 
he  is  quite  right.  Mis.  Marchmont  and  Mrs. 
Weston  may  be  very  nice,  and  of  course  it  i.«n't 
likely  ihnj  wo^ild  be  cruel  to  poor  young  Mr.-. 
Arundel,  iiut  1  know  that  Mr.  Marchmont  mu-l 
have  been  vmkind  to  that  poorgirl,  or  Mr  Arun- 
del would  never  haVc  done  what  he  did.' 

It  is  in  the  nature  of  good  and  brave  men  to 
lay  down  their  masculine  rights  when  they  leave 
their  hats  in  the  hall,  and  to  submit  themselves 
meekly  to  feminine  government.  It  is  only  the 
whippersnapper,  the  sneak,  the  coward  out  of 
doors,  who  is  a  tyrant  at  home.  See  how  meekly 
the  Con()ueror  of  Italy  went  home  to  his  charm- 
ing Creole  wife  !  See  how  pleasantly  the  Liber-' 
ator  of  Italy  lolls  in  the  carriage  of  his  golden- 
hairrd  Kn)press,  when  the  young  trees  in  that  fair 
wood  beyond  the  trium|)hal  arch  aie  green  in  the 
bright  spring  weather,  and  all  the  hired  vehicles 
in  Paris  are  making  toward  the  cnscade  !  Major 
l^awford's  wile  was  too  eeiitle,and  too  busy  with 
her  store-room  and  her  domestic  cares,  to  tyrar- 
nize  over  her  lord  and  master;  but  the  major  Wi.s 
duly  hen-pecked  by  his  blue-eyed  daughters,  ai d 
went  here  and  there  as  they  dictated. 

So  he  staid  away  from  Marchmont  Toweis  to 
please  Belinda,  and  only  said,  'Haw,'  'Yes,' 
''Pon  my  honor,  now!'  'FJless  my  soul!' when 
his  friends  told  him  of  the  magnificence  of  Paul's 
dinners. 

But  although  the  major  and  his  eldest  daughtj  r 
did  not  encounter  Mr.  Marchmont  in  his  own 
house,  they  met  him  sometimes  on  the  ntutral 
ground  of  other  people's  dining-rooms,  and  upon 
one  especial  evening  at  a  pleasant  little  dinner- 
party given  by  the  rector  of  the  psrish  in  which 
the  Grange  was  situated. 

Paul  made  himself  particularly  agreeable  upon 
this  occasion;  but  in  the  brief  interval  before  din- 
ner he  was  absorbed  in  a  conversation  with  Mr. 
Davenant,  the  rector,  upon  the  subject  of  ecclesi- 
astical architecture — he  knew  every  thing,  and 
could  talk  about  every  thing,  this  dear  Paul — and 
made  no  attempt  to  approach  .Miss  Lawford.  He 
only  looked  at  her  now  «nd  then,  with  a  furtive, 
oblique  glance  out  of  his  almond-shaped,  pale- 
gray  eyes;  a  glance  that  was  wisely  hidden  by  the 
light  auburn  lashes,  for  it  had  an  unpleasant  rc- 
semlilance  to  the  leer  of  an  evil-natured  sprite. 
Mr.  Marchmont  contented  himself  with  keeping 
this  lurtive,  watteh  upon  Belinds),  w  bile  she  talked 
gayly  with  the  rector's  two  daughters  in  a  pleas- 
ant corner  near  the  piano;  and  as  the  artist  totk 
Mrs.  Davenant  down  to  ihe  dining-room,  and  sat 
next  her  at  dinnrr.  he  ha<l  no  opportimity  of  fra- 
ternizing with  Belinda  <biiing  that  rrpal;  for  tie 
yoimg  lady  wa«  divided  froni  him  l>y  the  whole 
length  of  the  table,  tind.  moreoxer,  very  much  oc- 
cupied by  the  e>clu^ive  altctitions  of  lu  o  calloi« - 
looking  oflicers  from  th»^  nf-aresl  g.^rristn  town, 
who  were  atllicted  with  cxlieme  youth,  bt  d  were 
painfully  ron«riou»  of  their  d^jraHrd  «li  te,  but 


108  J<^HN  MARCH  MONT'S  F.EGAOV. 

nieil  iiotwilti><lan(Jiiig  to  carry  it  oft'  with  a  high  ^  »I  don't  think  you  know  any  thing  of  the  real 
hand,  and  atlected   the  opinions  of  Msed-up  fifty,    story,  Mr.  Pallisser,'  Belinda  said,  boldly,  to  the 

Mr,  Marchmont  had  none  of  his  womankind  ■  half-fledged  ensign.  'If  you  did,  I'm  .sure  you 
with  him  at  this  dinner;  for  his  mother  and  in- .would  admire  Mr.  Arundel's  conduct  instead  of 
valid  sister  had  neither  of  them  feltstrong enough  iblaniing  it.  Mr.  Marclimont  fully  deserved  the 
to  come,  and  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Weston  had  not  been  .disgrace  which  Edward — which  Mr.  Arundel  in- 
invited.     The  artist's  special  object  in  coming  to    Aided  upon  him.' 

Itii-i  dinner  was  the  conquest  of  Miss  Belinda  Law- .  The  words  were  still  upon  her  lips  when  Paul 
fwrd.  8he  sided  with  Edward  Arundel  againit  jMarchmont  himself  came  softly  through  the  flick- 
Uim.  She  must  beAnadt  to  believe  Kdward  wrong,  iering  fire-light  to  the  low  chair  upon  which  Be- 
and  himseif  right;  or  she  might  gu  iibout  spread- !  lindu  sat.  He  came  behind  her,  and  laying  his 
iiig  h»M'  opinions,  and  doing  hin»  mischief.  Beyond  jhand  lightly  upon  the  scroll-work  at  the  back  of 
that,  hehad  another  idea  about  thi<  auburn-haired, ;  her  chair,  bent  over  her,  and  saitj.  in  a  low,  con- 
hlue-cyed  IJelinda;  and  he  looked  to  this  dinner  as    fidential  voice.:  ^ 

likely  to  afford  him  an  oppoitunity  of  laying  the  'You  are  a  nobie  girl.  Miss  Lawford;  I  am  sorry 
foundation  of  a  very  diplomatic  scfieme,  in  whirli  that  you  should  think  ill  of  me;  but  1  like  you  for 
Miss  Lawford  should  unconsciously  become  his  having  spoken  so  frankly.  You  are  a  most  noble 
tool.  He  was  vexc3  at  being  placed  apart  from  girl.  You  are  worthy  to  be  your  father's  daugh- 
her  at  the  (iinner-table,  but  Wc  concealed  his  vex-    tcr.' 

ation;  aid  he  was  aggravated  by  the  rector's  old-  This  was  said  with  a  tone  of  suppressed  cmo- 
fashioned  hospitality,  wliich  detained  the  geitle-  tion;  but  it  was  quite  a  random  shot.  Paul  didn't 
men  over  their  wine  for  some  time  after  theladies  '  know  any  thing  about  the  major,  except  that  he 
left  the  dining-room.  Bui  the  opportunity  that  he  .  had  a  comfortable  income,  drove  a  neat  dog  cart, 
wanted  came  nevertheless,  and  in  a  manner  that  ;  and  was  often  seen  riding  on  the  flat  Lincolnshire 
he  had  not  anticipated.  ;  roads  with  his  eldest  daughter.   For  all  Paul  knew 

The  two  callow  defenders  of  their  country  had  to  the  contrary,  Major  Lawford  might  have  been 
sneaked  out  of  the  dining-room,  and  rejoined  the  ^  the  veriest  bully  and  coward  who  had  ever  made 
ladies  in  the  cozy  countrified  drawing-rooms.  Be-  those  about  him  miserable;  but  Mr.  Marchmont's 
lindi  and  her  two  companions  were  very  polite  to  tone  as  good  as  expressed  that  he  was  intimately 
the  helpless  young  wanderers  from  the  dining-  acquaiiued  with  the  old  soldier's  career,  and  had 
room;  and  they  talked  pleasantly  enough  of  all :  long  admired  and  loved  him.  It  was  one  of  Paul's 
loaiiner  of  things,  until  somehow  or  other  the  con- ■  happy  inspirations,  this  allusion  to  Belinda'^  fa- 
vcrsation  came  round  to  the  Marchmont  Towers  ther;  one  of  those  bright-touches  of  eolorlaid  on 
scandal,  and  Edward's  trealmentof  his  lost  wife's  ;  with  a  skillful  recklessness,  and  giving  sudden 
kinsman.  brightness  to  the  whole  picture;  a  little  spot  of ' 

One  of  the  young  men  had  been  present  at  the  .vermilion  dabbed  upon  th'e  canvas  with  the  point 
hunting-breakfast  on  that  bright  October  morning,  ^of  the  pallet-knife,  and  lighting  uj)  all  the  land- 
und  he  was  not  a  little  proud  of  his  superior  ac-  ; scape  with  sunshine, 
quaintance  with  the  whole  business.  .      'You  know  my  father.'' said  Belinda, surprised. 

'1  was  ihe-aw,Miss  Lawford,'  he  said.  '1  was;  'Who  does  not  know  him?'  cried  the  artist.  'Do 
on  the  tew-wace  after  bweakfast — tind  a  vewy  ex-  you  think,  Mis*;  Lawford,  that  it  is  necessary  to 
Calient  bweaklast  it  was,  I  ass-haw  you;  the  still  sit  at  a  man's  dinner-table  before  you  know  what 
Moselle  was  weally  admiwable,  and  Marchmont.;  he  is?  I  know  your  father  to  be  a  good  man  and 
has  some  Madewa  that  immeasurably  surpasses  a  brave  soldier,  as  well  as  1  know  that  the  Duke 
any  thing  1  can  induce  my  wine-merchant  to  send  ■;  of  Wellington  is  a  great  general,  though   1  never 

iiie I  was  on   the  tew-wace,  and  I  saw  Awundei    dined  at  Apsley  House.      I  lespect  your  father, 

comin'  up  the  steps,  awful  pale,  and  gwaspin'his  j  Miss  Lawforcj;  and  I  have  been  very  much  di^- 
whip;  and  I  was  a  witness  of  all  the  west  that  oc- '  tressed  by  his  evident  avoidance  of  me  and  mine.' 
curred;  and  if  I'd  been  Marchmont  [  should  have  This  was  coming  to  the  point  at  once.  Mr. 
shot  Awundei  before  he  left  the  pawk,  if  I'd  had  Marchmont's  manner  was  candor  itself.  Belinda 
to  swing  fow  it.  Miss  Lawford;  for  1  should  have  1  looked  at  him  with  widely-opened,  wondering 
felt,  b'.lovc,  that  my  own  sense  of  honaw  de-  eyes.  She  was  looking  for  the  evidence  of  his 
inanded  the  sacwifice.  Iloweraw,  xMarchmoiit  wickedness  in  his  face.  I  think  she  half  expected 
neems  a  vewy  good  fella;  so  I  suppose  it's  all  that  Mr.  Marchmont  would  have  corked  eye- 
wight  as  far  as  he  goes;  but  it  was  a  bwutal  biisi-;'  brows,  and  a  slouched  hat  like  a  stage  ruflian. 
iiess  altogethaw,  and  that  fella  Awundei  must  j  She  was  so  innocent,  this  simple  young  Belinda, 
he  ascoundwel.'  that  she  imagined  wicked  people  mu>t  necessarily 

Belinda  could  not  bear  this.     She  hail  borne  a    look  wicked, 
u-reat  deal  already.      She  had  been  obliged  to  ?<it  ,      Paul  Marchmont  saw  the  waverinirof  her  mind 
by  very  often,  and  hear  Kdward  Arundel's  eon-    in  that  half-puzz'ed   expression,  and  he  went  on 
(iitct  discussed  by  Thomas,  Richard,  and    Henry,    boldly. 

or  any  body  else  who  chose  to  talk  about  it;  and  '1  like  your  father,  Miss  Lawford,'  he  s>aid;  T 
>l.e  had  been  patient,  and  had  held  her  peace,  v\  ith  like  him,  and  I  respect  him;  and  1  want  to  know 
h.  r  heart  bumping  indignantly  in  her  breast,  and  him.  Other  people  may  misunderstand  me,  if  they 
pMoionafe  crimson  blushes  burning  her  cheeks,  please  1  can't  help  their  opinions.  The  truth  is 
But  she  could  not  submit  to  hear  a  iteaidless,  pale-  generally  strongest  in  the  end;  and  I  can  afford  lo 
aced,  and  rather  weak-eyed  young  ensign — who  w«il.  But  I  ran  not  afford  'o  forfeit  the  iViend- 
i  ad  never  done  any  greater  service  for  his  (iufcn  !<liip  of  a  man  1  esteem;  I  can  not  atl'onl  to  be  inif- 
•.ind  country  than  to  cry 'Shlo  lui'ii  1' to  a  dttach-  understood  by  your  taiher.  Mi-*  Law  ford  ;-.>rid  [ 
nient  of  raw  recruits  in  a  barrack-yard, in  the  early  have  been  very  niuih  p.iined — )c-,  very  much 
b  eakness  of  a  winter's  morning — take  upon  him-  pained — by  the  manntr  in  which  the  major  has 
Si-lf  to  blame  Edward  Arundel,  the  brave  soldier, '  repelled  my  little  attempts  al  friendiiness.' 
the  noble  Indian  hero,  the  devoted  lover  and  hus- 1  Belinda's  heart  smote  her.  She  knew  that  it 
band.the  valiant  avengerofhis  dead  wife's  wrongs,  j  wbs  her  influence  that  hud  kejt  her  fnlher  away 


.JQttN  MAROHMONT'S  LEG  ACT. 


129 


from  Marthmoiit  Towers.  This  young  lady  was 
very  conscientious.  She  was  a  Christian,  too; 
and  a  certain  sentence  touching  wrongful  judg- 
ments rose  up  against  her  v/hilc  Mp.  Marchmont 
was  speaking.  !f  she  liad  wronged  this  man;  if 
Edward  Arundel  had  been  misled  by  his  passionate 
grief  for  Mary;  if  she  had  been  deluded  by  Ed- 
ward's error — how  very  badly  Mr  Marchmont 
had  been  treated  between  them  !  She  didn't  say 
.  any  thing,  but  sat  looking  thoughtfully  at  the  lire; 
and  Paul  saw  that  sh|e  was  more  and  more  per- 
plexed. This  was  just  Vi?hat  the  artist  wanted. 
To  talk  his  antagonist  into  a  state  of  intellectual 
fog  was  almost  always  his  manner  of  commencing 
an  argument, 

tjBelinda  was  silent,  and  Paul  seated  himself  in* 
a  chair  close  to  hers.  The  callow  en.iigns  had 
gone  into  the  lamp-lit  front  drawing-room,  and 
Avere  busy  turning  orer  the  Icares — and  never 
turning  them  over  at  the  right  moment — of  a  thun- 
dering duet  which  the  Missus  Davenant  were  per- 
forming for  the  edification  of  their  papa's  visitors. 
Miss  Lawford  and  Mr.  Marchmont  were  alone, 
therefore,  in  that  cozy  inner  chamber,  and  a  very 
pretty  picture  they  (nadc;  the  auburn-haired  girl, 
and  the  palo,sentiraental-Iooking  artist  sitting  side 
by  side  in  the  glow  of  the  low  fire,  witli  a  back- 
ground of  crimson  curtai<is  and  gleaming  picture- 
Iramcs;  winter  flowers  piled  in  grim  Indian  jars; 
the  fitful  light  flickering  now  and  then  u{>on  one 
sharp  angle  of  the  high  carved  mantle-piece,  with 
all  its  Jiltcr  of  antique  china;  and  the  rest  of  the 
room  in  sombre  shadow.  Paul  had  the  field  all 
to  himself,  and  felt  tiiat  victory  would  be'  easy. 
He  began  to  talk  about  Edward  Arundel. 

If  he  had  said  one  v/ord  against  the  young 
soldier,  I  think  this  impetuous  girl,  who  had  not 
yet  learned  to  count  the  cost  of  what  she  did, 
would  have  been  passionately  eloquent  in  defense 
of  her  friend's  brother — for  uo  other  reason  thati 
that  he  was  the  brother  of  her  friend,  of  course; 
what  other  reason  should  »he  have  for  defendinj^ 
Mr.  Arundel.' 

But  Paul  Marchmont  did- not  give  her  any 
occasion  for  indignation.  On  the  contrary,  he 
spoke  in  praise  of  the  hot-hcadcd  young  soldier 
who  had  assault<-d  him,  making  all  manner  of 
excuses  for  the  young  man'.s  violence,  and  using 
that  tone  of  calm  superiority  with  which  a  man 
of  the  world  might  naturally  talk  about  a  foolish 
boy. 

'lie  has  been  very  unreasonable.  Miss  Law- 
ford,'  Paul  said,  by-and-by;  'he  has  been  very 
unreasonable,  arid  has  most  grossly  insulted  mc. 
But,  in  spite  of  all,  I  believe  him  t'>  be  a  very 
nonle  young  fcdow;  and  I  can  noi  find  it  in  m\ 
heart  to  be  really  angry  with  him.  What  hi^ 
particular  grievance  against  me  may  be  1  really 
do  not  know.'  ,  . . 

The  furtive  glance  frpi'n  the  loDg,-narrow  gray 
cwis  kept  close  watclj  upon  Belinila's  face  a? 
Paul  said  ttiis.  Mr.  Marchmont  wantid  to  as- 
certam  exactly  how  much  Belinda  knew  of  thai 
grievance  of  Edward's;  hut  ho  could  see  per- 
plexity only  in  her  face.  She  knew  nothing  def- 
inite, therefore;  she  had  only  heard  Edward  talk 
vaguely  of  his  wrongs.  Paul  Marchmont  was 
convinced  of  this,  and  he  went  on  boldly  now. 
for  he  felt  that  the  ground  was  all  clear  before 
him. 

'  I'nis  foolish  young  soldier  chooses  to  be  angry 

with  me  because  of  a  calamity  which   I  was  as 

powerless  to  avert  as  to  prevent  that  accidtnl 

upoQ  tbe  Southwestora  Kailway  by  which  Mr. 

IT 


^Arundel  so   nearly  lost  his.  life.     I  can  not  tell 

\  you  how  sincerely  I  regret  themjsoonception  that 
■f  has  arisen  in  hi§  mind.  Because  1  have  profited 
J  by  the  death  of  John  Murchmont's  daughter  this 
jimpetuous  young  husband  imagines — what.'*,  1 
;jcan  not  answer  that  question;  nor  can  he  him- 
self, it  seems,  since  he  has  made  no  definite  state- 
;'ment  of  his  wrongs  to  any  living  being.'  , 
;i  The  artist  looked  more  sharply  than  ever  at 
Belinda's  listening  face.  There  was  no  change 
;  in  its  expression.  The  same  wondering  look, 
'the  same  perplexity— that  was  all. 
;i  «When  I  saj  that  I  regret  the  young  man's 
folly,  Miss  Lawford,'  Paul  continued,  'believe 
'  me  it  is  chiefly  on  his  account  rather  than  my 
lown.  Any  insult  which  ho  can  inflict  upon  me 
,  'can  only  rebound  upon  himself,  since  every  body 
in  Lincolnshire  knows  that  I  am  in  the  right,  and 
;',he  in  the  wrong  ' 

:[  Mr.  Marchmont  was  going  on  Tcry  smoothly; 
;  but  at  this  point  Miss  Lawford,  who  had  by  no 
:|means  deserted  her  colors,  interrupted  his  easy 
'[profi;res3. 

'It  remains  to  be  proved  who  is  right  and  who 
wrong.  Mr.  Marclimont,' she  said.  'Mr.  Arundel 
is  the  brother  of  my  friend.  I  can  not  easily  be- 
lieve him  to  have  done  wrong.' 

Paul  looked  at  her  with  a  smile— a  smile  that 
brought  hot  bluslws  to  her  face;  but  she  relumed 
his  look  without  flinching.  The  brave  blue  eyes 
looked  full  at  the  narrow  gray  eyes  sheltered  un- 
der pale  auburn  lashes,  and  their  steadfast  gaze 
did  not  waver. 

'Ah,    Miss  'Lawford.'    said    the    artist,   still 

smiling,  'when  a  young  man  is  handsome,  brave, 

chivalrous,  and  generousrhearted,  it  is  very  aifli- 

cult  to    convince    a    woman    that    he    can   do 

vrong.     Edward  Arundel  has  done  wrong.     His 

iltra  Quixotism  has  mado  him   blind  to  the  folly 

of  his  own    acts.     I  c»n  afford  to  forgive  him. 

,  Rut  I  repeat  that  I  regret  his  infatuation  about 

,' this  poor  lost  girl   far   more   upon   his  account 

;.than  on  my  own;  for  1  know — at  least,  ^  ve.n1u.re 

;.  to  think — that  a  way  lies  open  to  him  of  a?'\ia!p'- 

)  pier  and  a  better  life  than  he  could  ever  hsivb 

;;  known  w  ith  my  poor  chiui'ish  cousin  Mary  M^tch- 

V  inont.     1  have  reason  to  know  that  he  has  formed 

i'iinother  attachment,  and   that  it  is  only  a  chival- 

J  rons  delusion  about  that  poor  girl — whom  he  was 

;  never  rrally   in    love  with,  and  whom   he  only 

',  married  because  of  some  romantic  notiim  inspired 

;  hy  my  cousin   John— that  withholds   him   from 

'/  that  other  and  brighter  prospect.^ 

I      [-fc  Avas  silent  for  a  few  moments,  and  then  l.e 

I  said,  hastily: 

'.     'Pardon  mf,   Miss  Lawford;  T  have  been  he- 
'( trayed  into  skying  much   that   (  hhd   better  have 
;  left  unsaid,  more  especially  to  you.     1 — ' 
'■      He  hesitated. a  little,   as  if  embarrassed,  aiul 
;  tlien  ro=e  and  iooked   into  th'  n»;xi  loom,  whcie 
':  ijj''  duet  had  been  followed  by  a  solo. 
;      One  of  the  rector's   daughters  came  toward 
j  the  inner  drawing-room,  followed  by  a  callow 
co^ien. 
i      'We  want  Belinda   to   sing,'  exclaimed  Blis.'? 
;  Davenant.     'We  want  von  to  fhi.g,  )ou  lir  some 
t  llelinda,  instead  of  Ipding  yourself  in  that  dark 
j  room  all  the  evening.' 

;     Belinda   came   out  of   the  darkness  witli  her 

checks  flushed   and  h«'r  evelids  drooping      Her 

I  heart  was  beating  so  fast  as  tu  make  it  quite  iuo- 

possible  to  speak  just  v«'t,  or  to  Mi'p  either.     But 

she  Bat  down  befor«  the  piaao,  md,  with.bau(U 


130  JOHN  MARCHMONT'S  LEGACY. 


that  trembled  in  spile  of  herself,  began  to  play 
one  of  lier  pet  sonalas. 

Unhappily   Beethoven    requires    precision    of 
touch  in  the  pianist  who  is    bold  enough  to  seek 


stopped,  and  then  he  walked  quietly  homeward 
in  the  gloaming.  The  early  spring  evening  was 
bleak  and  chill.  The  blacksmith's  fire  roared  at 
him  as  he  went  by  the  smithy.     All  the  lights  in 


to  interpret  him;  and  upon  this  occasion  I  am  the  queer  latticed-windows  twinkled  and  blinked 
compelled  to  admit  that  Miss  Lawford's  finger- i  at  him,  as  if  in  friendly  wfelcome  to  the  wan- 
ing was  eccentric,  not  to  say  ridiculous — in  com-'jderer.  He  remembered  them  all— the  quaint, 
mon  parlance,  she  made  a  mess  of  it;  and  just  |  misshapen,  lop-sided  roofs;  the  tumble-down 
as  she  was  going  to  break  down,  friendly  Ciara  |  chimneys;  the  low  doorways,  that  had  sunk 
Davenant  cried  out:  (down  below  the  level  of  the  village  street,  until 

'That  won't  do,  Belinda!  We  want  you  to  ;  all  the  front  parlors  became  cellars,  and  Strang* 
sing,  not  to  play.  You  are  trying  to  cheat  us.  |  pedestriar>i<  butted  their  heads  against  the  flower- 
We  would  rather  have  one  of  Moore's  melodies  ■  pots  in  the  bed-room  windows;  the  withered  iron 
than  all  Beethoven's  sonatas.'  j  frame  and  pitiful  oil-lamp  hung  out  at  the  corner 

So  Miss  Lawford,  still  blushing,  with  her  eye- 1  of  the  street,  and  making  a  faint  spot  of  feeble 
lids  still  drooping,  played  Sir  John  Stevenson's  i  light  upon  the  rueged  pavement;  mysterious  little 
simple  symphony,  and,  in  a  fresh  swelling  voice  i  shops  in  diamond-paned  parlor  windows,  where 
that  filled  the  room  with  melody,  began:  !;  Dutch  dolls  and   stationery,   stale  ginger-bread 

J  and  pickled-cabbage,  were  mixed  up  with  wooden 
' Oh,  the  days  are  gone  when  beauty  bright  i  peg-tops,  rickdv  paper-kites,  ereen  apples,  and 

^.puT^ret^'V^UeVuo^  „.orn  till  night.        .        ^tring-they  weVe  all  familiar  to  him. 
Was  love,  still  love.'  )      "c  passed   unquestioned   by  a  wicket  at  trie 

^side  of  the  great  gates.     The  fire-lij^ht  was  rosy 
And  Paul  Marchmont,  sitting  at  the  other  end  >  in  the  windows  of  the  lodge,  and  he  beard  a  wo- 
cf  the  room,  turning  over  Miss  Davenant'sscrap- Jnian's  voice  sinsring   a   monotonous   song  to  a 
book,  looked  up  through  his  auburn  lashes,  and  ^sleepy  child.     Every  where  in  this  pleasant  Eng- 
smiled  Mt   he  beaming  face  of  the  singer.  ^  land  there  seemed   to   be  the  glow  of  cottage- 

He  felt  that  tie  had  improved  the  occasion.        <  fires,  and  friendliness,  and  lore,  and  home.    The 
'1  am  not  afraid  of  Miss  Lav.'ford  now,'  he  ^  y"i'H|g  jn«n  sighed  as   he  remembered  that  great 
thought  t'j  himself.  ^  stone  mansion  far  away    in   dismal  Lincolnshire, 

This  candid,  fervent  girl  was  only  another  ;i  and  thought  how  happy  he  might  have  been  in 
piece  in  the  schemer's  game  of  chtss,  and  he  ^  this  bleak  spring  twilight,  if  he  could  have  sat 
saw  a  way  of  making  lier  usefuj  in  the  attain-^  by  Mary  Marchmont's  side  in  the  western  draw- 
ment  of  that  great  end  which,  in  the  strange  5  ing-roomjwatcbine  the  fire-light  and  the  shadows 
simplicity  of  cunning,  he  believed  to  be  the  one  /  'rembling  on  her  fair  youne:  lace, 
purpose  of  every  man's  life — feelf-Aggiandize-i  't  never  had  been,  and  it  never  was  to  be. 
ment.  <  The  happiness   of   a  home;  the  sweet  sense  of 

It  never  for  a  moment  entered  into  his  mind  ^  ownership;  the  delight  of  dispensing  pleasure  to 
that  Edward  Arundel  was  any  more  real  than  he^o'hers:  all  the  simple  domestic  joys  which  make 
was  himself.  There  can  be  no  perfect  compr-- ;! ''<"e  beautiful— had  never  been  known  to  John 
hension  where  there  is  no  sympothv.  Paul  be- / '^''archmont's  daughter  since  that  early  time  in 
lieved  that  Edward  had  tried  to  become  masiei  / '^'^''fh  she  shared  her  father's  lodgirg  in  Oakley 
of  Mary  Varchmont's  heritage,  and  had  failed.  J  Street,  and  went  out  in  the  cold  December  morn- 
and  ^3l<  angry  because  of  his  failure.  He  be-^  '"C  to  buy  rolls  for  Edward  Arundel's  breakfast, 
lieved  this  passionate  young  man  to  be  a  schemei  '/  From  the  bay-window  of  his  mother's  favorite 
'like  himself,  only  a  little  more  impetuous  and  '/  >itting-room  the  same  red  light  that  he  had  seen 
blundering  in  his  manner  of  going  to  work.  '/  'n  every  lattice  in  the  village  streamed  out  upon 

^  the  growing:  darkness  of  the  lawn.'    There  was 
;  a  half-glass  door  leading  into  a  little  lobby  near 

^t», '  ^this  sitting-room.     Edward    Arundel    opened    it 

<  and  went  in,  very  quietly.     He  expected  to  find 
>  his  motiier  and  his  sister  in  the  room  with  the 
CHAPTER  XXXm.  ^^  bay-window. 

/     The  door  of  this  familiar  apartment  was  ajar; 
THE  RETURN  OF  THE  WANDERER.  ^  he  pushed   it  Open  and  went  in.     It  was  a  very 

'  pretty  room,  and  all  the  womanly  litter  of  open 
The  March  winds  were  blowing  among  the ;;  hooks  and  music,  needle-work  and  drawing  ma- 
oaks  in  Dangerfied  Park,  when  Edv/ard  Arundel  .^terials,  made  it  homelike.  The  fire-Mght  flick- 
went  back  to  the  house  which  had  never  beeh  ^ered  upon  every  thing — on  the  pictures  and  pie- 
his  home  since  his  boyhood.  He  went  back  be-^  ture-frames,  the  black  oak  paneling,  the  open 
cause  he  had  grown  weary  of  lonely  wander-^  piano,  a  cluster  of  snow-drops  in  a  tall  glass'on 
ings  in  that  strange  Breton  country.  He  had  \  the  table,  the  scattered  worsteds  by  the  embroid- 
grown  weary  of  himself,  and  of  his  own  thoughts. '  ery-frame,  the  sleepy  dogs  upon  the  hearth-rug. 
He  was  worn  out  by  the  eager  desire  that  de-<  A  young  lady  stood  in  the  bay-window  with  her 
voured  him  by  day  and  by  night— the  passionate'^  back  to  the  fire.  Edward  Arundel  crept  softly 
yearning  to  be  far  away  beyond  that  low  Eastern  '/  up  to  her,  and  put  his  arm  round  her  waist, 
horizon  line;  away  amidst  the  carnage  and  riot ^     'Letty.' ' 

of  an  Indian  battle-field.  ;      It  was  not  Letitia,  but  a  young  lady  with  very 

So  he  went  back  at  last  to  his  mother,  who  .  blue  eyes,  who  blushed  scarlet,  and  turned  upon 
had  written  to  him  again  and  again,  imploring^  the  young  man  rather  fiercely,  and  then  recog- 
him  to  return  to  her,  and  to  rest,  and  to  be  happy  '  nizing  him,  dropped  into  the  nearest  cbair,[aDd 
in  the  familiar  household  where  he  was  be- j  began  to  tremble  and  grow  pale, 
loved.  He  left  his  luggage  at  the  little  inn  where';  •[  am  sorry  I  startled  you,  Miss  Lawford,' 
the  coach  that  had  brought  him  from  JEj;«t«r^  Edward  said,  gently;  •!  really  thought  you  were 


JOHN  MARCiIM0»T'3  LEGACY. 


131 


my  sister.    I  did  not  eren  know  that  you  were ;  her  waving  brown  hair  pushed  oflF  her  forehead, 
here.'  -  ;  and  her  white  eyelids  hiding  the  tender  blue  eyes. 

'No,  of  course  not.  I — you  did'nt  startle  me  She  sat  twisting  the  chain  in  her  fingers,  and 
much,  Mr.  Arundel,  only  you  were  not  expected  dared  not  lift  her  eyes  to  Mr.  Arundel's  face; 
liome.  I  thought  you  were  far  away  in  Brittany.  I  and  if  there  had  been  a  whole  flock  of  geese  in 
I  had  no  idea  that  there  was  any  chance  of  your  Uhe  rooai  she  could  pot  have  said  'Bo!'  to  one  of 
returning.  I  thought  you  meant  to  be  away  all  f  ttiem. 
the  summer;  Mrs.  Arundel  told  me  so.'  ;■     And  yet  she  was  not  a  stupid  girl.     Her  father 

Belitida  Lavvford  said  all  this  in  that  fresh  could  have  indignantly  refuted  any  such  slander 
girlish  voic«  which  was  familiar  to  Mr.  Arundel;  as  that  against  the  azure-eyed  Hebe  who  made 
but  she  was  still  very  pale,  and  she  still  trembled  <:  his  home  pleasant  to  hioi.  To  the  majir'a  mind 
a  lillle,  and  iher«  was  something  almost  apolo-;,  Belinda  was  all  that  man  could  desire  in  the  wo- 
getic  in  the  way  in  which  she  assured  Edward  ;  man  of  his  choice,  whether  as  daughter  or  wife. 
that  she  had  believed  he  would  be  abroad  through-  i  She  was  the  bright  genius  of  the  old  man's  home, 
out  the  summer.  It  seemed  almost  as  if  she  had  <  and  ho  loved  her  with  that  chivalrous  devotion 
said:  'I  did  not  come  here  because  1  thought  1  which  is  common  to  brave  soldiers,  who  are  the 
should  Sue  jou.  1  had  no  thought  or  hope  of  simplest  and  gentlest  of  men  when  you  chaia 
meeting  you.'  _  them  to  their  firesides,  and  keep  them  away  from 

But  Edward  Arundel  was  not  a  coxcomb,  and '' the  din  of  the  camp  and  the  confusion  of  the 
he  was  very  slow  to  understand  any  such  signs  ■  transport-ship. 

as  these,  lie  saw  that  he  had  startled  the  young  Belinda  Lawford  was  clever,  but  only  just 
lady,  and  that  ehe  had  turned  pale  and  trembled  clever  enough  to  be  charming.  I  don't  think 
as  she  recognized  him;  and  he  looked  at  her  with '! she  could  have  got  Ihrout^h  'Paradise  Lost,'  or 
n  half-wandering,  half-pensive  expression  in  his ;!  Gibbon's  'Decline  and  Fall,'  or  a  volume  by 
face.  -'Adam    Smith    or   M'Culloch,   though    you   bad 

She  blushed  as  he  looked  at  her.  She  wcnl  (o  j  promised  her  a  diamond  necklace  when  she  came 
the  table  aiiJ  began  lo  gathei-  together  the  silks ;;  conscientiously  to  'Fiuis.'  But  she  could  riaJ 
and  worsteds,  as  if  the  arrangement  of  her  work- :!  Shakspcare  for  the  hour  together,  and  did  read 
basket  were  a  matter  of  vital  importance,  to  be  hitii  aloud  to  her  father  in  a  fresh,  clear  voic, 
achievea  at  any  sacrifice  of  politeness.  Then  that  was '^'^  i  -i<;  on  the  water.  And  she  read' 
suddenly  remembering  that  she  ought  to  say  ;  Macaulays  iListory  of  England,' with  eyes  lhi;t 
something  to  Mr.  Arundel,  she  gave  evidence  of ;  kindled  when  the  historian's  pages  flamed  out 
the  originality  of  her  intellect  by  the  following  :  Vt'ith  burning  words  that  were  like  the  characters 
remark:  j.  upon   a   blazing  scroll.     She  could   play   Meii- 

•How  su'^prised  Mrs.  Arundel  and  Lctitia  will:  delssohn  and  Beethoven — plaintive  sonatas,  tender 
be  to  see  you:'  .  songs,  that  had  no  need  of  words  to  expound  tho 

Even  as  sLie  said  this  her  eyes  were  still  bent  ■  mystic  meaning  of  the  music.  She  could  sing 
upon  the  skeins  of  worsted  in  her  hand.  old  ball:  d=  and  Irish   melodies,  that  thrilled  tha 

'Yes;  I  think  they  will  be  surprised.  I  did  not  souls  of  those  who  heard  her,  and  matlc  hard 
mean  to  come  home  until  the  autumn.  But  I  got  men  pitiful  to  brazen  Hibernian  beggars  in  the 
so  tired  of  wandering  about  a  strange  country ,  London  streets  for  the  memory  of  that  penrive 
alone.  Where  are  they — my  mother  and  Le'-i"  music.  ■  She  could  read  the  leaders  in  the  Ti.nes, 
titiac'  /  with  no  false  quantities  in  the  La'in  quotations, 

'They  have  gone  down  the  village  to  the ;  and  knew  what  she  was  reading  aboui;  .  nd  had 
school.  They  will  be  back  to  tea.  Yourbrother  her  favorites  at  St.  Stephen's  and  adored  Lord 
is  away;  and  we  dine  at  thiee  o'clock,  and  drink/  Falmerston,  and  was  Liberal  to  the  core  of  her 
tea  at  e"ight.  It  is  so  much  plcasaoter  than  din-tender  young  heart.  She  was  as  brave  as  a  true 
inglate.'  >  Englishwoman  should  be,  and   would   have  gone 

This  was  quite  an  effort  of  genius;  and  Miss' to  the  wars  with  her  old  father,  and  served  him 
Lawford  went  on  sorting  the  skeins  of  worsted  in  as  his  page;  or  would  have  followed  him  into 
the  fire-light.  Edward  Arundel  had  been  stand- !  captivity,  and  tended  him. in  prison,  if  she  had 
ing  all  this  time  with  his  hat  in  his  hand,  almest  Hived  in  the  days  when  there  was  such  work  for 
as  if  he  had  been  a  visitor  making  a  late  morning  /  a  high-spirited  girl  to  do.  • 

call  upon  Belinda;  but  he  put  his  hat  down  now,^  But  she  sat  opposite  Mr.  Edward  Arundel,  and 
and  seated  himself  near  the  table  by  which  the.  twisted  her  chain  round  her  fingers,  and  listened 
young  lady  stood  busy  with  the  arrangement  of  for  the  footsteps  of  the  returning  mistress  of  the 
her  work-basket.  house.     She  was  like  a  bashful,  school-girl  who 

Her  heart  was  beating  very  fast,  and  she  was  has  danced  with  an  officer  at  her  first  ball.  And 
straining  her  arithmetical  powers  to  the  .utter-  yet  amidst  her  shy  confusion,  her  fears  that  she 
most,  in  the  endeavor  to  make  a  very  abstruse  should  seem  agitated  and  einbarrasfed,  her  strug- 
calculation  as  to  the  time  in  which  Mrs  Arundel  gles  to  appear  at  her  ease,  there  was  a  sort  of 
and  Letiiia  could  walk  to  the  village  school-house  pleasure  in  being  seated  here  by  the  low  fire  with 
and  back  to  Dangcrfield,  and  the  delay  that  might  Edward  Arundel  opposite  to  her.  There  was  a 
arise  by  reason  of  sundry  interruptions  from  ob-  strange  pleasure,  and  almost  painful  pleasure, 
scquious  galfers  and  respectful  goodys,  eager  for  mingled  with  her  feelings  in  those  quiet  moments, 
a  word  of  friendly  salutation  from  their  patroness.  /  She  was  acutely  conscious  of  every  sound  that 

The  arrangement  of  the  work-basket  could  not  broke  the  stillness — the  sighing  of  the  wind  in 
last  forever.  It  had  become  the  most  pitiful  pre-  the  wide  chimney;  the  falling  of  the  cinders  on 
tense  by  the  time  Miss  Lawford  shut  down  the  the  hearth;  the  occasional  snort  of  one  of  the 
wicker  lid,  and  seated  herself  primly  in  a  low  ;  sleeping  dogs;  and  the  beating  of  her  own  rest- 
chair  by  the  fire-place.  She  sat  looking  down  less  heart.  And  though  she  dared  not  lift  her 
at  the  fire,  and  twisting  a  slender  gold  chain  in  eyelids  lo  the  young  soldier's  face,  that  handsome, 
and  out  between  her  smooth  white  fingers.  She 'earnest  countenance,  with  the  chestnut  hair  lit 
looked  very  pretty  in  that  fitful  fire-light,  with  ',  up  with  gleams  of  goW»  ^e  firm  lips  shaded  bj  a 


132 


JOHN  MAKCHMONT'3  LliGAc^. 


hrosvn  mu'itache,  tho  per.3iv<>  sm'tlfcv  the  broad  come  to  pass  in  half  a  "cntury  or  so — if  he  should 
■wl.ite  fcreheuii,  the  da  ' -bjue  hrin^fc^jr .  icf  tied  c'loose  he-  foi.  his  s(  ■  vmd  wife,  she  knew  that 
loo?ei>  under  a  ^'nitt-  Ijar.  t'»eo?. -bless  gray  she  wor'd  be  glndly  and  tenderly  welcomed  at 
trtvo; .Jg-dn-ss,  even  lilt  ■  attuude  of  the  han^.  i  Oangerficld.  Mrs.  Arundel  had  hinted  as  mnrh 
and  am.  the  hent  headc. '  loj.ir;  a  little  over  th^^  as  this.  B(^liDda  knew  hov.'  mxiously  that  loving 
fre  were  9ii  prefent  to  h' r  mrtrsiglit  as  ifher  ;  mothrr  hoped  ihat  her  son  inijiht,  by-and-by,  form 
evta  ha'i kept  watch  alHliis  tiaie,  and  h'sd  ncTer  ;  new  ties,  ard  ceri'se  to  lead  a  puipo.'eless  life, 
■viravercd  ill  tlieir  steady"*ga7e.  ^      J  wasting  his  brightest  years  in   lan.ejfitations  for 

■■Tbereis  n  bcootdfcijjht  ihat  is  not  roccrgn\i»d  ;  his  lost  b/ide,  She  knew  all  thi^;  ard  sitting 
Sj^'-^gVaTC  profcssi -s  of ,  magic;  a  sccomi  sigfit  ,  opposite  to  the  youn;^  ipan  in  tl  e  fiie-light,  ther* 
■^ich  eomnio'i  ,  ecple  call  Love.  "     '     .   !  wr"!  a  dull  pain  at  h(  r  her^rt,  for  there  \'.-as  some- 

"  But  bv-and-by  Ed'vard  bee  an  to  talk,  and  then  i  thi  ig  in  the  soldier's  sombre  face  thut  told  her  he 
Mis^^  Lawforrf  foniid  coura;;u,  and  took  heart  to  ;  had  not  yfet  ceasbd   to  lament  tb?-t  irrevocable 
question  him  &boiit  his  v.anderiugs  in  Brittany.  ^  past. 
She  had  only  been  a  few  weeks  in  D?von'-hii''e, 

she  s'lid;  Her  thoughts  went  back  to  the  dreary  \  But  Mr*.  Anirdel  and  Letitia  came  in  presently, 
ajtnmii  in  Lincolnshire  as  she  spoke;  and  fehii  J  and  gave  utterance  to  loud  lejoicings;  and.pre- 
rem'enibered  the  dull  Octoljerdnyupon  wh'chhcjr  I  paraiions  were  made  for  the  physical  cnmfort 
fathtir  had  come  inio  the  girls'  moriiing-rooni  at  ^of  the  wanderer — bells  were  rung,  lighted  wax- 
the  Grange  with  Edward's  farewell  letter  in.  his  ',  candles  and  a  glittering  tea-service  were  brought 
hand.  She  remembered  tliis.' arid  all  the  ta)k|in,a  cloth  was  laid,  and  cold  meats  and  other 
that  there  had  been  about  the  horsewh'ippWg-oT  j  comestibles  spread  forth,  with  that  profusion  that 
Mr.  Paul  Marchmont  uaon  liis  own  thre'sllord.  {has  made  the  west  country  as  proverbial  as  the 
She  remembered  all  the  warm  discussions,  the  north  for  its  hospitality.  I  think  Miss  Law  ford 
speculations,  the  ignorant  conjectures,  tli^  praise,  j  woAild  have  sat  opposite  the  traveler  for  a  v  eek 
the  blame;  and  how  it  had  been  her  business  tn  (without  asking  an\  such  commonplace  queslion 
sit  by,  and  listen,  and  hold  her  peace,  except  J  ns  to  whetherMr.  Arundel  required  refreshment, 
upon  that  one  never- tn-be-forgotten  night  at  the  \  She  had  read  in  her  Hort's  Pai^heon  that  the  gods 
.rectory,  when  Paul  Marchmont  had  hinted  at  ;.sometimes  ate  and  drank  like  ordinarv  mortals; 
something  whose  perfect  meairing  she  had  never  <  yet  it  had  neverentered  into  her  mind  that  Edward 
dared  to  imagine,  but  which  had,  somehow  or  J  could  be  hungry.  But  she  now  had  the  satisfac- 
other,  mingled  vaguely  with  all  her  day-dreams  ;!  tion  of  seeing  Mr.  Arundel  eat  a  very  good  din- 
ever  since.  ^  ner,  while  she  herself  poured  out  the  tea  to  oblige 
Was  there  any  truth  in  that  which  Paul  March-  ',  Letitia,  who  w.as  in'the  middle  of  the  third  volume 
mont  had  said  to  her.'  Was  it  true  that  Edward  ■:  of  a  new  novel,  and  went  on  reading  it  as  coolly 
Arundel  had  never  really  loved  his  young  bride.' ;  as  if  there  had  been  no  such  person  as  thathand- 

Letitia  had  said  as' much,  not  once,  but  twenty  (some  young  soldier  in  the  world, 
times.  ■        :      'The  books  must  go  back  to  the  club  to-morrow 

♦It's  quite  ridiculous  to  suppose  that  he  could  ?  morning,  you  know,  mamma  dear,  or  I  wouldn't 
have  ever  been  in  love  with  the  poor,  dear,  sickly  \  read  at  tea-time,'  the  young  lady  remarked,  apolo- 
thing,'  Miss  Arundel  had  exclaimed;  'it  was  only  ,;  getically.  'I  want  to  know  whether  he'll  marry 
the  absurd  romance  of  the  business  that  captiva- )  Theodora  or  that  nasty  Miss  St.  Leger.  Linda 
ted  him;forEdward  is  really  ridiculously  romantic; ,  thinks  he'll  marry  Miss  St.  Leger,  and  be  miser- 
and  her  father  having  been  a  superuumer— it's  Ubie,  and  Theodora  will  die.  I  believe  Linda 
no  use;  I  don't  think  any  body  ever  did  know  )  likes  love-stories  to  end  unhappily.  I  don't.  I 
how  many  syllables  there  are  in  that  word— and  ^  hope  if  he  do^s  marry  Miss  St.  Leger— and  he'll 
having  lived  in  Oakley  Street,  and  having  written  ]  be  a  wicked  wretch  if  he  does,  after  the  things 
a  pitiful  letter  to  Edward  about  this  motherless  he  has  said  to  Theodora-^I  hope,  if  he  does, 
daughter,  and  all  that  sort  of  thing;  just  like  one  j  she'll  die— catch  cold  at  a  dcyuner  at  Twicken- 
of  those  tiresome  old  novels  with  a  baby  left  at  a  ■.  ham,  or  something  of  that  kind,  you  know;  and 
cottage-door,  and  all  the  s-s  looking  like  f '5,  and  !  (hen  he'll  marry  Theodora  afterward,  and  all 
the  last  word  of  the  page  repeated  at  the  top  of  \  will  end  happily.  Do  you  know,  Linda,  I  always 
the  next  page,  you  know.  That  was  why  my  |  fancy  that  you'rra  like  Theodora,  and  that  Ed- 
brother  married  Miss  Marchmont,  y,6u  may  de- ;  vvgrd's  like  Am.' 

pend  upon  it,  Linda;  and  all  I  hope  is,  that  he'll  \  After  which  speech'  Miss  Arundel  went  back 
be  sensible  enougn  to  marry  again  scon,  and  to  ;  to  her  book,  and  Edward  helped  himself  to  a 
have  a  Christian-like  wedding,  with  carriages,  j  slice  of  tongue  rather  awkwardly;  and  Belinda 
and  a  breakfast,  and  two  clergymen;  and /should  J  Lawford,  who  had  her  hand  upon  the  urn,  suf- 
wear  white  glac6  silk,  with  tulle  puffings,  and  a  '  feredUe  tea-pot  to  overflow  among  the  cups  and 
tulle  bonnet  (I  suppose  I  must  wear  a  bonnet,  be-  ■  saucers, 
ing  only  a  bride-maid.'),  all  showered  over  with  ( '  * 

clematis,  as  if  I'd  stood  under  a  clemr.tis-bush  • 

when  the  wind  was  blowing,  you  know,  Linda.'    ;  *■** " 

With  such  discourse  as  this  Miss  Arundel  had '; 
frequently  entertained  her  friend;  and   she  had;  CHAPTER  XXXIV. 

indulged  in  numerous  innuendoes  of  an  embar- ;  , 

rassing  nature  as  to  the  propriety  of  old  friends  '  *    widower    s    proposal. 

and  school-fellows  being  united  by  the  endearing  (  For  some  time  after  his  return  Edward  Arun- 
tie  of  sister-in-law-hood,  and  other  observations  |  del  was  very  restless  and  gloomy,  roaming  about 
to  the  like  effect.  \  the  country  by  hfbiself,  under  the  influence  of  a 

Belmda  knew  that  if  Edward  ever  came  to  ;  pretended  passion  for  pedestrianism,  reading  hard 
love  her— whenever  she  did  venture  to  speculate  for  the  first  time  in  his  life,  shutting  himself  in 
upon  such  a  chance,  she  never  dared  to  come  at,  his  dead  father's  library,  and  sitting  hour  after 
all  near  it,  but  thought  of  it  as  a  thing  that  might   hour  in  a  great  easy-chair,  reading  the  histories 


•    JOHN  MARCHMONT'S  LEGACST.         ,  135 

of  all  the  wars  that  haTP  ever  ravaged  this  earth,  my  hnighter  and  happier  self  to  you,  Belinda;  1 
from  the  days  in  which  the  elephants  of  a  Cartha-' consecrate  my  sorrow  nnd  my  tears  to  her.  1 
ginian  ruler  trampled  upon ''.»;  soldiery  of  Home,  love  yon  wiih  all  my  heart,  Belinda,  but  even 
to  the  era  of  that.  Corsican  ;  airister's  woi  ..erful  for  the  sake  of  your  love  I  will  not  pretend  that 
son,  wlio  came  out  of  his  simple  island  home  to  I  can  forget  her.  If  John  Marchmoni's  daugh- 
conqucrthe  civilized  half  of  the  world.  Uer  had  died  with  her  head  npon  my  breast  and  a 

Edward  Arundel  showed  himself  a  very  indif-!  prayer  on  her  lips,  1  might  have  regretted  her  as 
ferent  brother;  for,  do  what  she  ronld,  Letitia  other  men  regret  their  wives,  and  1  might  have 
could  not  induce  hitn  to  join  in  any  of  her  pur-  learned  by-and-by  to  look  back  upon  my  grief 
suilr-.  She  caused  a  butt  lo  'be  set  up  upon  t!ie  with  only  a  tender  and  natural  r' grcl,  that  would 
lawn;  but  all  she  could  say  about  Belinda's  best  have  left  my  future  life  unclouded.  But  it  can 
gold  could  not  bring  the  young  man  out  upon  the  never  he  so.  The  poison  of  remorse  is  blended 
grass  to  watch  the  two  girls  snootin_^.  lie  looked  with  that  sorrowful  memory.  If  I  had  done 
at  them  by  stealth  sometimes  through  the  window  othcrwije — il  i  had  been  wiser  and  morelhought- 
of  the  library,  and  sighed  as  he  thought  of  the  ful — my  darlui*  need  never  have  suflered;  my  dar- 
blight  upon  hi.'?  manhood,  and  of  all  the  things  that;  ling  need  never  have  sinned.  It  is  the  thi)Ught 
might  have  been.  ■;  that  her  death  may  have  been  a  sinful  one  that  is 

Slight  not  those  things  even  yet  come  to  pass.'  most  cruel  to  tae,  Belinda.  I  have  seen  her  pray, 
Had  he  not  done  his  duty  to  liie  deiid;  and  was  with  her  palo,  earnest  face  uplifted,  and  the  light 
he  not  free  now  to  begin  afresh  life.^  Hi-i"  mo-  of  faith  shining  in  her  gentle  eyes;  I  have  seen 
ther  was  perpetually  hinting. at  some  bright  pros-  the  inspiration  of  God  upon  her  face;  and  I  can 
pect  that  lay  smiling  before  him,  if  he  chose  to.  not  bear  to  think  that,  in  the  darkness  that  catne 
take  the' 'blossom-bestrewn  path  that  led  to  that  J;  down  upon  her  young  life,  that  holy  light  was 
fair  coii/m-y.  His  sister  told  him  still  more  quenched;  I  cannot  bear  to  think  that  Heaven 
plainly  of  a  prize  that  was  within  his  reach,  if;  was  ever  deaf  to  the  pitiful  cry  of  mj  inbocent 
he  were  but  oravc  enough  to  stretch  out  his  hand  ■  lamb.' 

and  claim  the  precious  treasure  for  his  own.  But;  And  here  Mr.  Arundel  paused,  and  sat  si- 
when  he  thought  of  all  this — when  he  pondered  ;  lentlv  looking  out  at  the  long  shadows  of  the 
whether  it  would  not  be  vise  to  drop  the  dense  trees  upon  the  darkening  lawn;  and  I  fear  that, 
curtain  of  forgelfulness  over  that  sad  picture  of  for  the  time  being,  he  forgot  that  he  had  just 
the  past — whether  it  would  not  be  well  to  let  the;  made  Miss  Lawford  an  ofl'er  of  his  hand  and  so 
dead  bury  their  dead,  and  to  accept  that  other  much  of  his  heart  as  a  widower  may  be  supposed 
blessing   which   the   same   Providence  that  had    to  have  at  his  disposal. 

blighted  his  first  hope  seemed  to  offer  to  him  now;  Ah  me!  we  can  only  live  and  die  once.  There 
— the  shadowy  phantom  of  John  Marchmont  are  some  things,  and  those  the  most  beautiful  of 
arose  out  of  the  mystic  realms  of  the  dead,  and  a;,  all  things,  that  can  never  be  renewed  :  the  bloom 
ghostly  voice  cried  to  him  :  '  on  a  bmterfly's  wing;  the  morning  dew  upon  a 

'I  charged  you  with  my  daughter's  safe-keep- J  newly-blown  rose;  our  first  viev¥  of  the  ocean; 
ing:  1  trusted  you  with  heV  innocent  love;  I  gave  J  our  first  pantomime,  when  all  the  fairies  were 
you  the  custody  of  her  helplessness.  What  have 'fairies  forever,  and  when  the  imprudent  con- 
you  done  to  shgw  yourself  worthy  of  my  faith  in  J  sumption  of  the  contents  of  a  pewter  quart- 
you  .''  ;  measure  in  sight  of  the  stage-box  could  not  di»- 

These  thoughts  tormented  the  young  widower  ■  enchant  us  with  that  elfin  creature  Harlequin, 
perpetually,  and  deprived  him  of  all  pleasure  in  ;  the  graceful,  faithful  betrothed  of  Columbine  the 
the  congenial  society  of  his  sister  and  Belinda ;' fair.  The  firstlings  of  life  are  most  precious, 
Lawford;  or  infused  so  sharp  a  flavor  of  remorse  ^' When  the  black  wing  of  the  angel  of  death  swept 
into  his  cup  of  enjoyment  that  pleasure  was  akin  over  agonized  Egypt,  and  the  children  wercsmif- 
to  pain.  ;  (en,  offended  Heaven,  eager  for  a  sacrifice,  took 

!So  I  don't  know  how  it  was  that,  in  the  dusky;  the  first-born.  The  young  mothers  would  have 
twilight  of  a  bright  day  in  early  May,  nearly  •  other  children,  perhaps;  but  between  those  others 
two  months  after  his  return  to  Dangerfield,  Ed-' and  the  mother's  love  there  would  be  the  pale 
ward  Arundel,  coming  by  chance  upon  Miss  shadow  of  that  lost  darling  whose  tiny  hands /(r.i/. 
Lawford  as  she  sat  alone  in  the  deep  bay-window  ^  drew  undreamed-of  melodies  from  the  sleeping 
where  he  had  found  her  on  his  first  coming,  con- ,  chords, ./irst  evoked  the  slumbering  spirit  of  ma- 
fessed  to  her  the  terrible  struggle  of  feeling  that  ternal  love.  Among  the'  latter  lines — the  most 
made  the  great  trouble  of  his  life,  and  asked  her  passionate,  the  most  sorrowful — that  George 
if  she  was  willing  to  accept  a  love  which,  in  its  Gordon  Noel  Byron  wrote,  are  some  brief  verses 
warmest  fervor,  was  not  quite  unclouded  by  the  that  breathed  a  lament  for  the  lost  freshness,  the 
shadovfs  of  the  sorrowful  past.  never-to-bc-recovered  youth  : 

•I  love  vo)i  dearly,  Linda,' he  said; 'I  love,  !■    „,         ,,,,   ,      ,,        ...        ,       , 
pstfpm     rndmire   von-  Tnd    I   know  Ihaf  it  is  in      °'''  '^""''^  '  I"^*'  *"  ^  ''*^*'  felt ;  or  be  what  I  Uave  been; 
esteem,  i   aamire  you,  ami    i   Know  inai  it  is  in      Or  weep  as  1  eoulJ  once  have  wept :' 
your  power  to  give  me   the  happiest  future  that 

ever  a  man  Imagined  in  his  youngest,  brightest  cried  the  poet  when  he  complained  of  that  'nior- 
dreams.  But  if  you  do  accept  my  love,  dear,  tal  coldness  of  the  soul,'  which  is  Mike  death 
you  must  take  my  memory  with  it.     1  can  not   itself. ' 

forget,  I.,inda  I  have  tried  to  forget.  1  have?  Eklward  Arundel  had  grown  to  love  Belinda 
prayed  that  God,  in  His  mercy,  might  give  me  Lawford  unconsciously,  and  in  spite  of  himseK*; 
forgetfutness  of  that  irrevocable  past.  But  the  but  the  first  love  of  fiis  heart,  the  first  fruit  of 
prayer  has*never  been  granted;  the  boon  has  his  youth,  had  perished.  He  could  not  feel  quite 
never  been  bestowed.  I  think  that  love  for  the  ^  the  same  devotion,  the  same  boyish  chivalrv',  that 
living  and  remorse  for  the  dead  must  forever '  he  had  felt  for  the  innocent  bride  ^\  ho  had  wan- 
reign  side  by  side  in  my  heart.  If  is  no  falsehood  :  dTcd  beside  him  in  the  sheltered  meadows  near 
to  you  that  makes  mo  remember  her;  it  is  no  for-  Winchester.  He  might  begin  a  new  life,  but  he 
{elfulness  of  her  thftt  makes  me  love  you.  I  ofier,  could  not  live  the  old  life  over  agaio.     He  must 


i-M 


JOKN  MAIICEMONT'S  LEG  ACT.     • 


wear  his  rue  with  a. difference  this  time.     Bat  he  , 
lored  Belinda  very  dearly,  nevertheless;  and  he  ', 
told  her  so,  aud   by-and-by  won  from  her  a  tear- 
ful  avowal  of  affection.  j 

Alas  !  she  had  no  power  to  question  the  man-' 
ner  of  his  wooing.  He  loved  her— he  had  said  as  ■ 
much;  and  all  the  good  she  bad  desired  in  this  f 
universe  became  hers  from  the  mumeut  of  Ed-  \ 
ward  Arundel's  utterance  of  those  words.  He, 
loved  her;  that  was  enough.  That  he  should ) 
cheristi  a  remorseful  sorrow  for  that  lost  wife  j 
made  him  oniy  the  truer,  nobler,  and  dearer  in  j 
Belinda's  sight.  She  was  not  vain,  or  exacting, 
or  selfish.  It  was  not  in  her  nature  to  begrudge 
poor  dead  Mary  the  tender  thoughts  of  her  bus-  \ 
band.  She  was  generous,  impulsive,  believing;  ? 
and  she  had  no  more  inclinaiion  to  doubt  Ed-) 
ward's  love  fiir* her,  after  he  had  once  avowed  j 
such  a  sentiment,  than  to  disbelieve  in  the  light  ; 
of  heaven  when  she.  saw  the  sun  shining.  On-; 
questioning,  and  unutterably  happy,  she  received 
her  lover's  betrothal  kiss,  and  went  with  him  to  ; 
his  mother,  blushing  and  trembling,  to  receive  ' 
that  lady's  blessing. 

*Ab»  if  you  knew  how  I  have  prayed  for  this,  ; 
Linda!'  Mrs.  Arundel  exclaimed,  as  the  folded  ; 
tlie  girl's  slight  (ijure  in  Iter  anus. 

I 'And    I   stiail    wear  whit^  g!ac6   with  pinked 
flounces,  instead  of  tulle  puffmg.s.,  you  sly  Linda,' ; 
cried  Letitia.  ; 

'And  I'll  give  Ted  the  home  farm,  and  the  ^ 
white  house  to  live  in,  if  he  likes  to  try  his  hand  ' 
at  th.i  new  system  of  farming,'  said  R.eginald  • 
.  Arundel,  v/ho  had  come  home  from  the  Conli-- 
nent,  and  had  amused  himself  for  the  last  week 
by  strolling  about  his  estate,  and  staring  at  his  ; 
timber,  and  almost  wishing  Uuit  there  was  a  ne-  ■ 
cessity  for  cutting  down  all  the  oaks  in  the  ave-  •: 
nue,  so  that  he  might  have  something  to  occupy  ; 
him  until  the  12ih  of  Aug'ist. 

Never  was  promised  bride  jnore  welcome  to  a  '■■ 
household  than  bright  Belinda  Lawford;  and  as 
for  the  young  lady  herself,  I  must  confess  that 
she  was  almost  childishly  happy,  and  thai  it  was 
all  that  she  could  do  to  prevent  her  liglit  !<tep 
from  falling  into  a  dance  as  she  floated  hither  and  , 
^.hither  through  the  house  at  Dangerfield — a  fres-h 
young  Hebe  in  crisp  muslin  robes;  a  gentle  god- ; 
dess,  with  smiles  upon  her  face'*and  happiness  in  ' 
her  heart. 

'I  loved  you  from  the  first,  Edward,'  she  whis- . 
pered  one  Oay  to  her  lover.     'I   knew  that  you 
were  good,  and  brave,  and  noble;  and  1  loved 
you  because  of  that.' 

And  a  little  for  the  golden  glimmer  in  his  clus- 
tering auburn  curls;  and  a  little  for  his  handsome 
profile,  his  dark-blue  eyes,  and  that  distinguished  I 
air  peculiar  to  the  defendersof  their  country,  more  ! 
especially  peculiar,  perhaps,  to  those  who  ride  on  • 
horseback  when  they  sally  forth  to  defend  her.  , 
Once  a  soldier  forever  a  soldier,  J  think.  You' 
may  rob  the  noble  warrior  of  his  uniform,  if  you  [ 
will;  but  the  je  ne  sais  quoi,  the  nameless  air  of  ^ 
the  'long-sword,  saddle,  bridle,'  will  hang  round  ) 
him  still.  \ 

Mrs.  Arundel  and  Lelitia  took  matters  quite 
out  of  the  hands  of  the  two  lovers.  The  elder  ; 
lady  fixed  the  wedding-day,  by  agreement  with  ; 
Major  Lawford,  and  sketched  out  the  route  for  ■ 
the  wedding-tour.  The  younger  lady  chose  the  ;, 
fabrics  for  the  dresses  of  the  bride  and  her  at- 
tendants; and  all  was  done  before  Edward  and  \ 
Belinda  well  knew  what  their  friends  were  about. ; 
I  think  that  Mrs.  Arundel  feared  her  son  might  j 


change  his  mind  if  matters  were  not  brought 
swiftly  to  a  climax,  and  that  she  hurried  on  the 
irrevocable  day  in  order  that  he  might  have  no 
breathing-time  until  the  vows  had  been  spoken 
and  Belinda  Lawford  was  his  wedded  wile.  It 
had  been  arranged  that  Edward  should  escort  Be- 
linda back  to  Lincolnshire,  aud  that  his  mother 
and  Letitia,  who  was  to  be  chief  bridemaid, 
should  go  with  them.  The  marriage  was  to  be 
solemnized  at  Hillingsworth  Church,  which  was 
within  a  mile  and  a  half  of  the  Grange. 

The  first  of  July  was  the  day  appointed  by 
agreement  bt-tween  Major  and  Mrs.  Lawfird  and 
Mrs.  Arundel,  and  on  the  18th  of  June  Edward 
was  to  accompany  his  mother,  Letitia,  and  Be- 
linda to  Lincolnshire.  They  were  to  break  the 
journey  by  stopping  in  town  for  a  few  days,  in 
order  lo  make  a  great  many  purchases  necessary 
for  Mi«s  Lawfurd's  wedding  paraphernalia,  for 
which  the  Major  had  sent  a  bouncing  check  tp 
his  favorite  daughter. 

And  all  this  liine  ihe  only  person  at  all  unset- 
tled, the  only  per-on  whose  mind  was  ill  at  ease, 
was  Edward  Aruode';  the  youmr  wiiiawer  who 
was  about  tu  take  to  himself  a  second  wife.  His 
mother,  who  watched  him  with  a  maternal  com- 
prehension of  every  change  in  his  face,  saw  this, 
and  trembled  for  her  sun's  happiness. 

'And  yet  he  cannot  be  otherwise  than  happy 
with  BeUnda  LawforJ,'  Mrs.  Arundel  thought  to 
herself.  • 

Hut  upon  the  eve  of  that  journey  to  London 
El  ward  s'lt  alone  with  his  mother  in  the  drawing- 
room  at  Dangerfield,  after  the  two  younger  ladies 
had  retired  for  the  night.  They  shpt  in  adjoin- 
ing apartments,  these  two  yourig  ladies;  and  1  re- 
gret to  say  that  a  great  deal  of 'heir  conversation 
was  about  Valenciennes  lace,  and  flounces  cut 
upon  the  cross,  mr^ire  antique,  mull  muslin,  glace  ' 
silk,  and  the  last  'sweet  thing'  in  bonnets.  It  was 
only  when  loquacious  Letitia  was  shut  out  that 
Mi-s  Lawford  knelt  alone  in  the  still  moonlight, 
and  prayed  that  she  might  be  a  good  wife  to  the 
man  who  had  chosen  her  I  don't  think  she  ever 
prayed  tiiat  she  might  be  faithful,  and  true,  and 
pure;  for  it  never  »-nteied  into  her  mind  that  any 
creature  bearing  the  sacred  name  of  wife  could 
be  otherv/ise.  She  only  prayed  for  the  mysterious 
power  to  preserve  her  husband's  affection,  and 
make  his  life  happy.     , 

Mrs.  Arundel,  setting  tcte-d-tcte  with  her 
younger  son  in  the  lamp-lit  drawing-room,  was 
startled  by  hearing  the  young  man  breathe  a 
deep  sigh.  She  looked  up  from  her  work  to  see 
a.  sadder  expression  in  liis  face  than  perhaps  ever 
clouded  the  countenance  of  an  expectant  bridd- 
groom. 

'Edward !'she  exclaimed. 

'What,  mother.''' 

'How  heavily  you  sighed  just  now!' 

'Did  I. ''said  Mr.  Arundel, abstractedly.  Then, 
after  a  brief  pause,  he  said,  in  a  different  tone, 
'It  is  no  use  trying  to  hide  these  things  from  you, 
mother.     The  truth  is,  I  am  not  happy.' 

'Not  happy,  Edward!'  cried  Mrs.  Arundel; 
'but  surely  you — ' 

'I  know  what  you  are  going  to  say.  mother. 
Yes,  mother;  I  love  this  dear  girl,  Linda,  with 
all  my  heart;  I  love  her  most  sincerely;  and  I 
could  look  forward  to  a  life  of  unalloyed  happi- 
ness with  her,  if — if  there  was  not  some  inexpli- 
cable dread,  some  vague  and  most  miserable 
feeling  always  coming  between  me  and  my  hopes. 
1  have  tried  to  look  forward  to  the  future,  mo- 


JOHN  MAReHMONT'S  L£aAOT. 


136 


ther;  I  haT©  tried  to  think  of  what  my  life  may 
be  with  Belinda;  but  I  can  not,  1  can  not^  I  can 
not  look  forward;  all  is  dark  to  me.  I  try  to  build 
up  a  bright  palace,  and  an  unknown  han^  shatters 
it.  I  try  tQ  turn  away  from  the  memort'  of  m> 
old  sorrows;  but  the  same  hand  plucks  me  back, 
and  chains  me  to  the  past.  If  I  could  retract 
what  I  have  done;  if  I  could,  with  an)  show  o( 
honor,  draw  back,  eren  now,  and  not  s^o  upon 
this  journey  to  Lincolnshire;  if  I  fouW  break  m\ 
faith  to  this  poor  girl  who  loves  me,  and  whom  1 
*love,  as  God  knows,  with  all  truth  and  earnest- 
ness— I  would  do  so;  1  would  d««o.' 

•Edward!' 

•Yes,  mother;  I  would  do  it.  It  is  not  in  me  to 
forget.  My  dead  wife  haunts  me  by  night  ami 
day.  I  hear  her  voice  crying  to  me,  "False, 
false,  false;  cruel  and  false;  heartless  and  forget- 
ful !"  There  is  never  a  night  that  I  do  not  dream 
of  that  dark  sluggish  river  down  in  Lincoinshiie. 
There  is  never  a  dream  that  I  have,  however  ri- 
diculous, however  inconsistent  in  all  its  other  de 
tails,  in  wfiich  I  do  not  see  her  dead  face  looking 
up  at  me  through  the  murky  waters,  l-^vrn  whci 
I  am  talking  to  Linda,  when  woids  of  love  h'l 
her  are  oti  my  lips,  my  mind  wanders  away  back 
— always  back — to  the  sun-set  by  the  boat-houst- 
when  my  little  wife  gave  me,  her  hand,  to  tti' 
trou'-sircam  in  the  meadow,  where  we  sat  aidt 
by  side  and  talked  about  the  fu  ure.' 

Fop  a  few  minutes  Mrs.  .Arundel  was  quite  si 
lent.  She  abandoned  herself  for  that  brief  inter- 
val to  com{>lete  despair.  It  wan  all  over.  Tht 
bridegroom  would  cry  off;  insulted  Major  Law- 
ford  would  come  post-haste  to  Dangcrfield.  to  an- 
nihilate this  dismal  widuwer.  who  did  not  knovv 
his  own  niino.  All  the  shimmering  fjlii  ics — th« 
gauzes,  and  laces,  and  silks,  and  veivetf — thai 
were  in  course  of  [)reparation  irt  the  upper  cham 
bers,  would  become  so  much  useless  finery,  to  be 
hidden  in  out-of-the-way  cupboards,  and  di' 
vourcd  hy  misanthropical  moths— insect  icone- 
clasts,  who  take  a  delight  in  destroying  the  deco- 
rations of  the  human  temple. 

Poor  Mrs.  Arundel  took  a  mental  photograpl' 
of  all  the  complicated  horrors  of  the  situation 
An  offended  father;  a  gentle,  loving  girl,  crusht-i 
like  some  broken  lily;  gossip,  slander,  misery  ol 
all  kinds.  And  then  the  lady  plucked  up  cour 
age,  and  gave  her  recreant  son  a  sound  lecture 
to  the  effect  tliat  his  conduct  was  atrociou»l\ 
wicked;  and  that  if  this  trusting  young  hride,  thi- 
fair  young  second  wife,  were  to  be  taken  awa) 
fr6m  him  as  the  first  had  been,  such  a  calamiij 
would  only  be  a  fitting  judgment  upon  him  for  lu>! 
folly. 

But  Edward  told  his  mother  very  (juietly  that 
he  had  no  intention  of  being  false  to  hia  newlj- 
plijhted  troth. 

•1  love  Belinda,'  he  said;  'and  I  will  bo  true  to 
her,  mother.  But  I  cannot  forget  the  past.  It 
hangi  about  me  like  a  bad  dream.' 


CHAPTEa  XX.W. 

HOW    TUK    TIPIKOt     WERE     RKCKIVm     1\    I-INCOLK- 
iniRF.. 

The  young  widower  made  no  further  lamenta- 
tion, Irut  did  his  duty  to  hii  betrothed  bride  with 


a  cheerful  yisage.  Ah,  what  a  pleasant  jour- 
ney it  was  to  Belinda,  that  progress  through 
London  on  the  way  to  Lincolnshire.  It  wa« 
iike  that  triumphant  journey  of  last  March,  wheu 
I  he  royal  bridegroom  led  his  Northern  bride 
'hrough  a  surging  sea  of  eager,  smiling  faces,  to 
'he  musical  jangling  of  a  thousand  bells.  If 
here  were  neither  populace  nor  joy-bells  ou 
I  his  occasion,  I  scarcely  think  Miss  Lawford 
knew  that  those  elements  of  a  triumphal  progress 
were  missing.  To  her  cars  all  the  universe  was 
musical  with  the  sounds  of  mystic  joy-bells;  all 
the  earth  was  glad  with  the  brightness  of  happy 
faces.  The  railway-carriage,  the  commonplace 
vehicle,  frouzy  with  the  odor  of  wool  and  mo- 
rocco, was  a  fairy  chariot,  more  wonderful  than 
Qtiecn  Mab's;  the  white  chalk-cutting  in  the 
liill  was  a  shining  cleft  in  a  mountain  of  silver; 
the  wandering  streams  were  melted  diamonds; 
the  stations  were  enchanted  castles.  The  pale 
«herry,  carried  in  a  pocket  flask,  and  sipped  out 
•<f  a  little  silver  tumbler — there  is  apt  to  be  a 
^varm  flatness  about  sherry  taken  out  of  pt.cket- 
tla^ks  that  is  scarcely  agreeable  to  the  coimois- 
-eur — was  like  nectar  newly  brewed  for  the  god"; 
even  the  anchovies  in  the  saKduiches  were  hke- 
iie  enchanted  fish  in  the  Arjibian  story.  'A 
magical  philter  had  brcn  infused  into  the  atmos- 
phere; the  flavor  of  first  love  was  in  every  sight 
and  sound. 

Was  ever  bridegroom  more  indulgent,  more 
devoted,  than  Edward  Arundel.'  He  sat  at  the 
conntcrs  of  silk-mercers  for  the  hour  together, 
while  Mrs.  Arundel  and  the  two  girls  deliberated 
nver  cri'p  fabrics  unfolded  for  their  inspection. 
He  was  always  ready  to  be  consulted,  and  gave 
his  opinion  upon  the  cotiflicting  merits  of  f>each 
color  and  pink,  apple-green  and  maize,  wiih  un- 
wearying attention.  But  sometimes,  even  while 
Belinda  was  smilicg  at  him,  with  the  rippluig 
silken  slufl'  held  up  in  her  white  hnnds,  and 
making  a  lustrous  cascade  upon  the. counter,  the 
mystic  hand  plucked  him  back,  and  his  mind 
wandered  away  to  that  childish  bride  who  had 
chosen  no  splendid  garments  for  her  wedding, 
lut  had  gone  with  him  to  the  altar  as  trustfully 
as  a  batiy  goas  in  its  mother's  arms  to  the  cradle. 
If  he  had  been  left  alone  wjth  Belinda,  with  ten- 
der, sympathetic  t^elinda — who  loved  him  well 
enough  to  understand  him,  and  was  always  readv 
lo  take  her  cue  from  his  face,  and  to  be  jovousor 
thoughtful  according  to  his  mood— it  might  have 
been  hetter  for  him.  But  his  mother  and  Letitia 
reigned  paramount  during  this  ante-nuptial  week, 
and  Mr.  Arundel  was  scarcely  sufl'ered  to  lake, 
breath.  He  was  hustled  hither  ard  thither  in 
the  hot  summer  noontide.  He  was  taken  to 
Mowell  and  James's  to  choose  a  dressing-case  for 
his  bride;  and  he  was  made  to  look  at  glittering 
ohjecis  until  his  eyes  ached,  and  he  could  see 
nothing  but  a  bewildering  dazzle  of  ormolu  and 
silver-gilt.  He  was  taken  l»  a  great  emporium 
in  Bond  Street  to  select  perfumery,  and  made  tu 
sniff  at  divers  essences  until  his  nostrils  were  un 
naturally  di.stended,  and  his  olfactory  nerves  af 
dieted  with  temporary  paralysis.  Thern  was 
jewelry  of  his  mother's  and  of  Belinda's  mo- 
ther's to  be  re-set;  and  the  hymeneal  victim  wis 
compelled  to  sit  for  an  hour  or  lo,  blinking  tt 
fiery-creited  serpents  that  were  destined  to  coil 
up  his  wife's  arms,  and  emerald  padlocks  that 
were  to  lie  upon  her  breast.  And  thei.,  when  his 
soul  wag  weary  of  glaring  splendors  and  glitter- 
ing confusions,  they  took  him  rnuii«J  the  Park,  in 


136 


JOHN   MARCHMONT'S  LEGACY. 


a  whirlpool  of  <liaphanou»  bonnets,  and  smiling) 
faces,  and  brazen  harness,  and  emblazoned  ham-  [ 
mer-cloths,  on  the  margin  of  a  river  whose  wa- ' 
ters  were  like  molten  gold  under  the  blazing  sun.  ; 
And  then  they  gave  him  a  seat  in  an  opera-box,  ^ 
and  the  crash  of  a  monster  orchestra,  blended 
with  the  hum  af  a  thousand  voices,  to  soothe  his  , 
nerves  withal.  5 

But  the  more  wearied  this  young  mati  became  j 
with  glitter,  and  dazzle,  and  sunshine, .and  silk- 1 
mercer's  ware,  the  more  surely  his  mind  wan-.; 
dered  back  to  the  still  meadows,  and  the  limpid  : 
trout-stream,  the  sheltering  hills,  the  solemn 
shadows  of  the  cathedral,  the  distant  Voices  of 
the  rooks  high  up  in  the  waving  elms.  '. 

The  bustle  of  preparation  was  over  at  last,  and  ' 
the  bridal  party  went  down  to  Lincolnshire.  ; 
Pleasant  chambers  had  been  prepared  at  the  ! 
Grange  for  Mr.  Arundel  and  his  mother  and  sis- ; 
ter;  and  the  bridegroom  was  received  with  en- ^ 
ihusiasra  by  Belinda's  blue-eyed  younger  sisters,  j 
who  were  enchanted  to  find  that  there  was  going  \ 
to  be  a  wedding,  and  that  they  were  to  have  new  ' 
frocks.  j 

So  Edward  would  have  been  a  churl  indeed  / 
had  he  seemed  otherwise  than  happy,  had  he  j 
been  any  thing  butdevoted  to  the  bright  girl  who  > 
loved  him.  \ 

Tidings  of  the  coming  wedding  flew  like  wild- '/ 
fire  through  Lincolnshire.  Edward  Arundel's  ;• 
romantic  story  had  elevated  him  into  a  hero;  all ' 
manner  of  reports, had  been  circulated  about  his  ;; 
devotion  to  his  lost  young  wife.  He  had  sworn  s 
never  ib  mingle  in  society  again,  people  said. ) 
Hte  had  sworn  never  to  have  a  new  suit  of) 
clothes,  or  to  have  his  hair  cut,  or  to  shave,  or  to  ; 
eat  a  hot  dinner.  And  Lincolnshire  by  no  means  < 
approved  of  the  defection  implied'  by  his  ap- ; 
proaching  union  with  Belinda.  He  was  only  a  J 
commonplace  widower  after  all,  it  seemed;  ready  ; 
to  be  consoled  as  soon  as  the  ceremonious  inter- < 
val  of  decent  grief  was  over.  People  had  ex-j 
pected  something  better  of  him.  They  half  ex-' 
pected  to  see  him  in  a  year  or  two  with  long  gray^ 
hair,  shabby  clothes,  and  his  beard  upon  his^ 
breast,  prowling  about  the  village  of  Kember-j 
ling,  baited  by  little  children.  Lincolnshire  was< 
very  much  disappointed  by  tiie  turn  that  affairs,' 
hid  taken.  Shakspe'arian  aphorisms  were  cur-; 
rent  among  the  gossips  at  comfortable  tea-tables;; 
aod  people  talked  about  funeral  baked  meats,  and  ; 
the  propriety  of  building  churches  if  you  have  ^ 
any  ambitious  desire  that  your'  memory  should  < 
outlast  your  life,  and  other  bitter  observations,; 
familiar  to  all  admirers  of  the  great  dramatist.      ; 

But  there  were  some  people  in  Lincolnshire  to  ;, 
whom  the  news  of  Edward  Arundel's  intended; 
marriage  was  more  welcome  than  the  early  May-  i 
flowers  to  rustic  children  eager  for  a  festival.  < 
Paul  Marchmont  heard  tlic  report,  and  rubbed  j 
his  hands  stealthily,  and  smiled  to  himself  as  he  j 
sat  reading  in  the  sunny  western  drawing-room,  j 
The  good  seed  that  he  had  sown  that  night  at ; 
the  Rectory  had  borne  this  welcome  fruit.  Ed-  j 
ward  Arundel  with  a  young  wife  would  be  very 
much  less  formidable  than  Edward  Arundel  single  ' 
and  discontented,  prowling  about  the  neighbor-  ; 
hood  of  Marchmont  Towers,  and  perpetually  : 
threatening  vengeance  upon  Mary's  cousin. 

It  was  busy  little  Lavinia  Weston  who  first  , 
brought  her  brother  the  tidings.  He  took  both  her  , 
hands  in  his,  and  kiss:ed  them  in  his  enthusiasm.  ! 

•My  best  of  sisters,'  he  said,  'you  shall  ha?©  a  ! 
pair  of  diamofid  ear-rings  for  this.'  i 


'For  only  bringing  you  the  news,  Paul  ?' 

'For  only  bringing  me  the  news.  When  a  mes- 
senger carries  the  tidings  of  a  great  victory  to  bis 
king,  the  king  makes  him  a  knight  upon  the  spot. 
This  marriage  is  a  victory  to  me,  Lapnia.  From 
to-day  I  shall  breathe  freely.' 

'But  they  are  not  married  yet.  Something 
may  happen,  perhaps,  to  prevent — ' 

'What  should  happen.''  asked  Paul,  rather 
sharply.  'By-the-by,'  it  will  be  as  well  to  keep 
this  from  Mrs.  John,'  he  added,  thoughtfully; 
though  really  now  I  fancy  it  matters  little  what 
she  hears.' 

He  tapped  his  forehead  lightly  with  hi»  two 
slim  fingers,  and  there  was  a  horrible  significance 
in  the  action.         * 

'She  is  not  likely  to  hear  any  thing,'  Mrs. 
Weston  said;  'she  sees  no  one  but  Barbara  Sim- 
mons.' 

'Then  I  should  be  glad  if  you  would  give  Sim- 
mons a  hint  to  hold  her  tongue.  This  news  about 
the  wedding  would  disturb  her  mistress.' 

'Yes,  I'll  tell  her  so.  Barbara  is  a  very  ex- 
cellent person.  I  can  always  manage  Barbara. 
But,  oh,  Paul,  I  don't  know  what  I'm  to  do  with 
that  poor  weak-witted  husband  of  mine. ' 

'How  do  you  mean  ?' 

'Oh,  Paulj  I  have  had  such  a  scene  with  him 
today.  Such  a  scene!  You  remember  the  way 
he  went  on  that  day  down  in  the  boat-house  when 
Edward  Arundel  came  in  upon  us  unexpectedly .' 
Well,  he's  been  going  on  as  badly  as  that  to-day, 
Paul — or  worse,  1  really  think.' 

Mr.  Marchmont  frowned,  and  flung  aside  his 
newspaper,  with  a  gesture  expressive  of  consid- 
erable vexation.  \ 

'Now,  really,  Lavinia,  this  is  too  bad,'  he 
said;  'if  your  husband  is  a  fool,  I  am  not  going 
to  be  bored  aboift  his  folly.  You  have  managed 
him  for  fifteen  years;  surely  you  can  go  on  man- 
aging him  now  without  annoying  me  about  him  i 
If  Mr.  George  Weston  doesn't  know  when  he's 
well  off,  he's  an  ungrateful  cur,  and  you  may 
tell  him  so,  with  my  coiupliments.' 

He  picked  up  his  newspaper  again,  and  began 
to  read.  But  Lavinia  Weston,  looking  anxiously 
at  her  brother's  face,  saw  that  his  pale  auburn 
brows  were  contracted  in  a  thoughtl'ul  frown, 
and  that,  if  he  read  at  all,  the  words  upon  which 
his  eyes  rested  could  convey  very  little  meaning 
to  his  brain. 

She  w'as  right,  for  presently  he  spoke  to  her, 
still  looking  at  the  page  before  him,  and  with  an 
attempt  at  carelessness. 

'Do  you  think  that  fellow  would  go  to  Aus- 
tralia, Lavinia .'' 

'Alone  .^'  asked  his  sister. 

'Yes,  alone,  of  course,'  said  Mr.  Marchmont, 
putting  down  hi*  paper,  and  looking  at  Mrs 
Weston  rather  dubiously;  'I  don't  want  you  to 
go  to  tlie  antipodes;  but  if— if  the  fellow  refused 
to  go  without  you,  I'd  make  it  well  worth  your 
while  to  go  out  there,  Lavinia.  You  shouldn't 
have  any  reason  to  regret  obliging  me,  my  dear 
girl.' 

The  dear  girl  looked  rather  sharply  at  her  af- 
fectionate brother. 

'It's  like  your  selfish'ness,  Paul,  to  propose 
such  a  thing,'  she  said,  'after  all  I've  done — ' 

'1  have  not  been  illiberal  to  you.  Lavinia.' 

'No,  you  have  been  generous  enough  to  me,  I 
know,  in  the  matter  of  gifts;  but  you're  rich, 
Paul,  and  you  can  aflbrd  to  give.  I  don't  like 
the  idea  that  you  are  so  willing;  to  pack  me  out 


JOHN  MARCHMONT'S  LEGACY. 


1S7 


of  the  way  now  that  I  can  be  uo  longer  useful  to  >  study  lookin;;  out  into  the  quadrangle.    Shs  ss 
you.'  *  ;  alone  in  that  dismal  chamber,  dimly  lighted  by 


6h«  sat 
you.'  '  <  aione  in  luai  nismai  ciiamoer,  oimiy  ugnted  by  & 

Mr.  Marchmont  shrugged  his  sheulders.  ^  pair  of  wax-cai^dles,  in   tall,   tarnistied,   silver 

'For  Heaven's  sake,  Lavinia,  don't  be  senti- ^  candlesticks.  There  could  be  no  greater  con- 
mental.  If  there's  one  thing  I  despise  more  |  trast  than  that  between  this  desolate  woman  and 
than  another,  it  is  this  kind  of  mawkish  senti-^he  master  of  the  house.  All  about  him  was 
mentality.  You've  been  a  very  good  sister  to  ^bright,  and  fresh,  and  glittering,  and  splendid; 
me,  and  I've  been  a  very  decent  brother  to  you.  j  around  her  there  was  only  ruin  and  decay,  thick- 
If  you  have  served  me,  I  have  made  it  answer  j  ening  dust,  and  gathering  cobwebs— outward  evi- 
your  purpose  to  do  so.  I  don't  want  you  togo'dences  of  an  inner  wreck.  John  Marchmont's 
away.  You  may  bring  all  your  goods  and  chat- <;  widow  was  of  no  importance  in  that  household, 
teis  to  this  house  to-morrow,  if  you  like,  and  live  ^  The  servants  did  not  care  to  trouble  themselves 
at  free  quarters  here  for  the  rest  of  your  exist- <  about  her  whims  or  wishes,  nor  to  put  her  rooms 
ence.  But  if  George  Weston  is  a  pig-headed  '  in  order.  They  no  longer  courtesicd  to  her  when 
brute,  who  can't  understand  upon  which  side  his '^  they  met  her,  wandering— with  a  purposeless 
bread  is  buttered,  he  must  be  got  out  of  the  way  ;  step  and  listless  feet  that  dragged  along  the 
somehow.  I  don't  care  what  it  costs  me;  but  he  j  ground— up  and  down  the  corridor,  or  out  in  the 
must  be  got  out  of  the  war.  I'm  not  going  to  ,  dreary  quadrangles.  They  kneio  that  she  was  mad. 
live  the  life  of  a  modern  Damocles,  with  a  blun->  What  was  to  be  gained  by  any  show  of  respect 
dering  sword  always  dangling  over  my  head,  in  ^  to  her,  whose  brain  was  too  weak  to  hold  the 
the  person  of  Mr.  George  Weston.  And  if  the -;  memory  of  their  conduct  for  five  minutes  to- 
man objects  to  leave  the  country  without  you, ':  get  her?  Of  all  the  cruel  calamities  that  can  be- 
why,  I  think  your  going  with  him  would  be  only  j  fall  humanity,  surely  this  living  death  called 
a  sisterly   act   toward   mc.     I   hate   selfishness,  <;  madness  is  the  worst. 

Lavinia,  almost  as  much  a^s  I  detest  sentimen-^      Barbara  Simmons  only  was  faithful  to  her  mis- 
tality.'  '  tress  with  an  unvarying  fidelity.     She  made  no 

Mrs.  Weston  was  silent  for  some  minutes,  ab-^  boast  of  *her  devotion;  she  expected  neither  fee 
sorbed  in  reflection.  Paul  got  up,  kicked  aside  a  (  nor  reward  for  her  self-abnegalion.  That  rigid 
foot-stool,  and  walked  up  and  down  the  room  ^  religion  of  discipline  which  had  not  been  strong 
with  his  hands  in  his  pockets.  /  enoujjh   to  preserve  Olivia's   stormy   soul   from 

'Perhaps  I  might  get  George  to  leave  England.  (  danger  and  ruin  was  at  least  all-suflicient  for  this 
if  I  promised  to  join  him  as  soon  as  he  was  com-;'  lower  type  of  woman.  Barbara  Simmons  had 
fortably  settled  in  the  colonies,'  IVIrs.  Weston  ;  been  taught  to  do  her  duty,  and  she  did  it  with- 
said.  at  last.  ^  out  question  or  complaint.     As  she, went  through 

'Yes,'  cried  Paul;  'nothing  could  be  more  easy.  <  rain,  snow,  hail  or  sunshine  twice  every  Sunday 
I'll  act  very  liberally  toward  him,  Lavinia;  IMl  to  Kemberling  Church— as  she  sat  upon  a  hard 
treat  him  well;  but  he  shall  not  stay  in  England.  {  seat  in  an  uncomfortable  angle  of  the  servants' 
No,  Lavinia;  after  what  you  have  told  me  to-day,  j  pew,  with  the  sharp  edges  of  the  wood-work  cut- 
I  feel  that  he  must  be  got  out  of  the  country.'       ;ting  her  thin  shoulders,  to  listen  patiently  to  dull 

Mr.  Marchmont  went  to  the  door  and  looked  fnambling  sermons  upon  the  hardest  texts  of  St. 
out,  to  see  if  by  chance  any  one  had  been  listen- j  Paul— so  she  attended  upon  her  mistress,  submit- 
ing  to  him.  The  coast  was  quite  clear.  TUe)  ting  to  every  caprice,  putting  up  with  every  hard- 
stone-pavcd  hall  looked  as  desolate  as  some  un-|  ship;  because  it  was  her  duty  so  to  do.  The  only 
discovered  chamber  in  an  Egyptian  temple.  The.  relief  she  allowed  herself  was  an  hour's  gossip 
artist  went  back  to  Lavinia,  and  seated  himself  <  now  and  then  in  the  housekeeper's  room;  but 
by  her  side.  For  some  time  the  brother  andS'^he  never  alluded  to  her  mistresses  infirmities, 
sister  talked  together  earnestly.  ^  nor  would  it  have  been  safe  for  any  other  ser- 

They  settled  every  thing  for  poor  hen-pecked  •  vant  to  have  spoken  Ijn-htly  of  Mrs.  John  March- 
George  Weston.     He  was  to  sail  for  Sydney  im-)'  mont  in  stern  Barbara's  presence. 
•  mediately.     Nothing  could  be  more  easy  than  for '/     l^^pon  this  summer  evening,  when  happy  people 
Lavinia  to  declare   that  her  brother   had  acci-  /  were  still  lingering  among  the  wild   flowers  in 
dentally  heard  of  some  grand  opening  for  a  medi->  shady  lanes,  or  in   the  dusky  pathways  by  the 


quiet    river,   Olivia    sat    alone,  staring    at   the 
candles. 

Was  there  any  thing  in  her  mind,  or  was  she 
only  a  human  automaton  slowly  decaying  into 
dust?  There  was  no  speculation  in  those  large 
lustreless  eyes  fixed  upon  the  dim  light  of  the 
andles.  But  for  all  that  the  mind  was  not  k 
blank.  The  pictures  ofUhe  past,  forever  chang- 
ing, like  the  scenes  in  some  magic  panorama, 
revolved  before  her.  She  had  no  memory  of 
that  which  had  happened  a  quarter  of  an  hour 
ago;  but  she  could  remember  every  word  that 
Edward  Arundel  had  said  to  her  in  the  Rectory 
garden  at  Swampingtou — every  intonation  of  the 
voice  in  which  those  words  were  spoken. 

There  was  a  tea  service  on  the  table:  an  at- 
tenuated little  silver  tea-pot;  a  lopsided  cream- 
jug,  with  thin   worn  edgps  and   one  dumpy  little 
Upon   the   3l8t  of  June,  the   eve  of   Edward  ;f.iot  missing;  and  an  antique  dragon  china  cup 
Arundel's   wedding-day,   Olivia   Marchmont  sat^and  saucer  with   the  gilding  washed  off.     That 
in  her  own  room — the  room  that  she  had  chiefly '^ meal,  which  is  generally  called  social,  has  but  & 
occupied  ^ever  since  ber^husband's  death — the  j  dismal  aspect  when  it  ii  oaJjr  prepared  for  oaO) 
IS 


cal  practitioner  in  the  metropolis  of  the  anti 
pedes.  The  surgeon  was  to  have  a  very  hand- 
some sum  given  him,  and  Lavinia  would, o/cotir.tf, 
join  him  as  soon  as  he  was  settled.  Paul  March- 
mont even  looked  through  the  Shipping  Gazette  in 
search -of  an  Australian  vessel  which  should 
speedily  convey  his  brother-in-law  to  a  distant 
shore. 

Lavinia  Weston  went  home  armed  with  all 
necessary  credentials.  She  was  to  promise  al- 
most any  thing  to  her  husband,  provided  that  he 
gave  his  consent  to  an  early  departure. 


CHAPTER  XXXVI. 

MR.    WE9T0N    KEFl'SES    TO    BE    PCT    IPON. 


138 


JOHN  MARCHMONT'S  LEGACY. 


The  solitai-y  tea-cup, -hall  filled  with  cold,  stac;- 
.nant  tea,  with  a  leaf  or  two  floating  upon  the 
top,  like  weeds  on  the  surface  of  a  tidele'ss  pond; 
the  tea-spoon  thrown  abkew  .across  a  little  pool 
of  spilled  ini)k  in  the  tea-tray — looked  as  dreary 
as  tlie  ruins  of  a  dcrcrted  city. 

In  the  western  drawing-room  Paul  was  stroll- 
ing backward  and  forward,  talking  to  h:3  mother 
and  si-ters,  and  admiring  his  pictures.  He  had 
spent  a  great  deal  of  money  upon  art  since  taking 
possession  of  the  Towers,  and  the  western  draw- 
ing-room was  quitfe  a  different  place  to  what  it 
had  been  in  John  Marchmont's  lifetime. 

Etty's  dirinites  smiled  through  hazy  draperies, 
more  transparent  than  the  summer  vapors  that 
float  before  the  moon.  Pearly-complexioned 
nymphs,  with  faces  archly  peeping  round  the 
corner  of  soft  rosj  shoulders,  frolicked  amidst 
the,  silver  spray  of  classic  fountains.  Turner's- 
Grecian  temples  glimmered  through  sultry  sum- 
mer mists;  while  glimpses  of  ocean  sparkler 
here  and  there,  and  were  as  beautiful  as  if  the 
artist's  brush  had  been  dipped  in  melted  opals. 
Stanfield's  breezy  beaches  made  cool  spots' ol 
freskness  on  the  wall.  Panting  deer  upon  dizx) 
cra^s,  amidst  the  misty  IlighiandS,  testified  to 
the  hand  of  Landseer.  Low  down,  in  the  coniert 
of  the  room,  thTe  lu;'ked  quaint  cotitge-scenes 
by  Faed.  Ward's  patched  and  powdered  beaux 
and  beauties,— a  Rochester,  in  a  light  periwig;  a 
Nell  Gwynne,  showing  her  y/hite  teeth  across  a 
basket,of  oranges — made'  a  b.Iii'ze  gf  color  upop 
the  walls;  and  among  all  these  j;lofies  of  Ip.-da^ 
■*  there  were  prim  Madonnas  and  stilf-necked  angeli 
by  Raphael  and  Tinlorctlo;  a  brown-faced  grin- 
ning boy  by  Murillo  (no  colh;  ■■  1,,'as  com- 
plbte  without  th.it  .inevitah;'  ed  boy); 
an  obese  Venus,  by  the  greai.  ._  .  .  .lui;  and  s 
pale  Charles  the '  ii^irst, .  M'ith  martyrdom  fore- 
shadowed in  hispeusiy.}  face,  by  Vandyke.   ; 

Paul  IVTarchmont  coutemplaled  hi?  treasures^ 
Complacently  as  he  strolicd  abciit  the  room,  wfth 
his  eofiee-cup,  in  his  hand;  whiic_  his,  molhei 
watched  him  admiringly  from,., her  "comfbrtabit. 
cushioned  nest  at  one  end  of  a, luxurious  sofa. 

'Well,  mother,'  Mr.'  Slarchmont  said,  presjently, 
Het  people  say  ivhat  they  may  of  me,  they  can 
never  say  that  I  have  used  my  money  badly' 
When  r  am  dead  and  gone  these  pictures  will 
remain  to  speak  for  me;  posterity  will,  say, 'At 
any  rate,  the  fellow  was.  a  man  of  lasle.'  Nov, 
what,  in  Heaven's  name,  could  tliat  miserable 
little  Mary  have  done  with  eleven,  thousand  a 
year,  if — if  she  had  lived  to  enjpy  it.'|    ,, 

The  minute-hand  of  the  little  clock  iq  Jlrs. 
Jolin  IVIarchmont's  study  was  creeping  slowlj. 
toward  the  quarter  before  eleven,  when'  Olivia 
was  aroused  suddenly  from  that  long  reverie,  in 
which  the  images  of  th«  past  had  shpne  upon  her 
across  the  dull  stagnation  of  the  present,  like  the 
domes  and  minarets  in  a  Phantasm  City  gleaming 
athwart  the  barreri  desert  sands. 

she  was  aroused  by  a  cautious  tap  upon  the 
outside  of  her  window.  She  g(5t  up,  opened  the 
window,  and  looked  but.  Tlxe  night  was  dark 
and  starless,  and  there  was  a  faint  whisper  of 
wind  among  the  trees,  that  sounded  like  the  pre- 
sage of  a  storm. 

'Don't  be  frightened,'  whispered  a  timid  voice; 
'it's  only  me,  Georue  Weston.  I  want  to  talk  U 
you,  Mrs.  John.  I've  got  something  parlicula> 
to  tell  you — awful  particular;  but  they  mustn't 
hear  it;  they  rausta't  know  I'm  here     I  came 


ji'ound  this  way  en  purpose.     You  can  let  me  in 
;  at  the  little  door  in  the  lobby,  can't  ypu,  Mrs. 
<  John .'     I  tell,  you  1  must  tell  you  what  I've  got  to 
I  tell  you,'  crigd    Mr.   Weston,  indiflerent  to  tau- 
tology in  his  excitement.     'Do  let  me  in,  there's 
a  dear  good  soul.     The  little  door  in  the  lobby, 
you  know;  it's  locked,  you  know,  but  t}je  kpy 
ain't  taken  away,  1  dessay.'  ^         ,    , 

'The  door  in  the  lobby.''  repeated  Oliviaj/in  a 
dreamy  voice.  \    ,  '    ■ 

'Yes,  ijou  know.  .Do  Ipt  me  in  now,  that's  ; 
good  creature.  It's  awful  particular,  I  tell  you. 
It's  about  Edward  Arundel.' 

Edward  Arundel !  The  sound  of  that  name 
seemed  to  act  upon  the  woman's  shattered  nerves 
like  a  stroke  of  electricity.  The  drooping  head 
reared  itself  ;erect.  The'ey^s,so  lustreless  be- 
fore, flashed  fire  from  their  sombre  depths.  Com- , 
prehension,  animation,  energy  returned,  as  sud- 
denly as  if  the  wand  of  an  enc^auter  had  sum- 
moned the  dead  back  to  life.    ... 

'Edward  Arundel !'  she  crie'd,  in  a  clear  voicf 
that  was  utterly  unlike  the  dull  deadness  of  he- 
usual  tones. 

'Hush!'  whispered  Mr. ;  Weston ;  'don't  spfeak 
loud, for.goodness  gracious  Mil''.  I  dessay  there's 
all  manner  of  spies  about.  in,  and  I'll 

tell  you  every  thijng.'   ^ 

'Yes,  yes;  I'^li  Ivst  ybu  in.     Tlic   door  by  the 
lobby— I  understand;  cpme,  come.' 
s     Oliviu  d  isappeared  from  the  v.indow.     The  Icl^- 
by  of  which  the  surgaon  had  spoken  was  clo' 
!  to  Iterovyi)  apartment.     She  found  the  key  in  tl 
I'  lock  of  the  door.     The  "place  was   dark;    s! 
opened   tlie   doOr    almost    noiselessly,   and   Isir 
;  Wefto.n  crept, in  on  tip-toe.    He  followed  Oliv' 
into'tbe  study,  closed  the  door  beuind  hin^,  ai.. 
drew  a  long  breath. 

^J'yfe  got  in.'.he  said;  'and  tow  I  am  In,  wi] 
:  horse's  shouldn^t  hold  me  from  speaking  my  iriii' 
much,  less  Paul  Marchmont. ' 

^e  turned  the'  key  in  the  door  ^s  Uc  , 
and,  fcveu  as  he  did  so,  glanced  ratlicr  suspicou: 
toward  the  wjindov^.     To 'jiis  ,mind  the  very  i\ 
mosphcrfi'   of'iha't  hou^e   was  pervaded,  by,  tii, 
presence  of  his  brolhcr-in-l.^v,'.  :    ,  ,. 

'Oil,  Mfs.  John  !'  exclaimed  the  surgeon,  in 
piteous  accents,  'the  way  that  I've  been  put 
upon!  Fow.'t'e  been  pjit  .upon,  Mrs.  John,  but 
you  dou't  seem  to  mind  It;  and  perhaps  it  s  better 
•b'b'ring  one's  self  to  that,  if  one  can;  but  Ican't.; 
I've  tried  to  bx-ing  myself  to  it;  I've  even  taken  to 
drinking,  Mrs.  Jchn^'much  as  it  goes  against  mc; 
and  I've  tried  to  drown  my  feelings  as  a  man  in 
rum-and-water.  ,But  the  more  spirits  I  consunn 
Mrs.  John,  the  nibre  of  a. man  I  feel.' 

M^.  Weston  struck  the  top' of  his  hat  with  h\., 
clenched  fist,  and  stared  jjtiercely  at  Olivia, 
breathing  very  hard,  anjp'^irp.^hing  rum-and-water 
With  a  faint  odor  of  lemon-peel. 

'Edward  Arundel !— what  about  Edward  Arun- 
del ?'  said  Olivia,  in  a  low,  eager  voice. 

'I'm  coming  to  that,  Mrs.  John,  in,  due 
c 'course,' returned  Mr.  VVeston,  \Yith  an,  air  of 
diiiDity  that  \vas  superior  even  to  hiccoug'i. 
'What  I  sa'y,  Mrs.  John,' he  added,  in  a  ccnT- 
dential  and  argumentative  tone,  'is  this  :  /  u^onH 
be  putvpo-a!'  Here  his  voice  sank  to  an  awful 
whisper. — 'Of  course  it's  pleasant  enough  to  have 
one 's  rent  provided  for,  and  not  to  be  kept  awake 
oy  poor's  rates,  Mrs.  John;  lut.  good  gracious 
nie !  I'd  rather  have  the  Queen's  taxes  and 'the 
poor  rate's  following  me  up  day, and  night,  and  a 
man  in  possession  to  provi4e  for  at  eyeigr  meal— 


JOHN  MAKCHMONT'S  LEGACY.  139 

and  you  iiou't  kuov/  how  coutemptuous  a  mbtrl  in  ;  'I  ain't  mad,  Mrs,  Joliii,  :iiiy  uuic  uiau — '  Mr. 
pos'^ession  can  look  at  3-on  if  you  olfVr  Iiim  salt  Weston  v/as  going  to  say,  'thari  you  are;'  but  it 
butter,  Or  your  table  in  a  general  Way  don't  meet  struck  him  that,  under  existing  circumstances, 
his  views— than  the  conscience  I've  had  since  '  the  comparison  niightbe  ill-advis-ed — 'lain"tany 
Paul  Marchraonfcame  into  Lincolnshire.  I  feel,  '  madder  than  other  people,'  he  said,  presently. 
Mrs.  John,  as  if  I'd  committed  oceans  of  mur-\"Edward  Arundel  is  going  to  be  married.  1  have 
ders.  It's  a  miracle  to  me  that  my  hair  hasn't !  seen  thcyoung  lady  in  Kemberiing  with  her  Pa; 
turned  white  before  this;  and  it  would  have  done  \  and  she's  a  very  sweet  young  woman  to  look  at;  ' 
it,  Mrs.  J.';  if  it  wasn't  of  that  stubborn  nature  Und  her  name'«  Belinda  Lawfurd;  and  the  wed- 
which  is  too  wiry  to  give  expression  (o  a  man's  \  ding  isto  be  at  eleven  o'clock  to-morrow  morn- 
sufferings.  Oh,  Mrs.  John,  when  I  think  how  ling,  at  Hiilingsworth  Church.' 
my  pangs  9f  conscience  have  been  made  game  of  ^  Olivia  slowly  lifted  her  hands  fo  her  head;  and 
— when!  remember  the  insulting  niimcs  I  have  >  swept  the  loose  hair  away  from  her  brow.  AH 
been  caiitd,  because  my  heart  didn't  happen  to  be  Hhe  mists  that  had  obscured  her  brain  melted 
made  of  adamant,  my  blo.idboils;  it  botls,  Mrs.  ;  slowly  away,  and  showed  her  tiie  past  as  it  had 
John,  to  that  degree  that  I  feel  thetime  has  come  ,»  really  been  in  ail  its  naked  horror.  Yes;  step  by 
for  action.  I  have  been  put  upon  nnhl  the  spirit  j  step  ihfe  cruel  hand  had  urged  her  on  from  bad  to 
of  manliness  witliin  me  blazes  tip  liffe  a  fiery  fur- )  worse;  from  bad  to  worse;  until  it  had  driven  her 
nacc.     I've  hcea  trodden  upon,  Mrs.  John;  but  (Ae/r. 

I'm   not  tlic  worm   they  took  me  for.'    To-day  [     It  was  for //i*s  that  she  liad  sold  her  soul  to  the 

'  they've  j^ut  the  (inishcr  upon   it.'    The  surgeon  ( powers  of  hell.     It  was  fur  this   that  she  had 

;)i':(r.al  totakc  breath.  His  mild  an/!  r;,fi..  :■  -'ict  m-  ;  helped  to  torture  that  Innocent  girl  whom  adying 

iitenanre.  was  Hushed;  his  lather  had  given  into  her  pitiless  hand.  For  this  ! 

!  cuuvul.^*<<ly  in  his  endca  lor  this  !    To  find  at  last  that  all  her  iniquity  liad 

i'f'-...o,T  to  "the  violence  of  his  fccli:.;  .  '  iV..-cluy  ;  l>ocn  wasted,  and  .that  Edwurd  Arundel  ■  had 
they've  put  the  finisher,  upon  it,'  he  repeated.  }  chosen  another  bride— Jaircr,  perhaps,  than  the 
'I'm  to  go  to  Australia,  am  1.^    Ilu  !  ha  !  wo'i!  ■   ■■    ''  -      Tho  mad,  unholy  jealousy  of  he 


about  that.-   There's  a  nice  opening  jn  the  ;,:  i'.  from 


iholy  jealousy  of  her  nature 


■om   the  -ubscurily  of  mental   decay,  a 
eal  !i;i'-;  i:,  tVi?.'o.>  and  dcarPrirjl  v,i!l  rrjv'.;  ungovernable   spirit.'.'  But  another  spili^. 

f- ■  • '■    Ha  !  i:  in  the  next' moment.     Conscience,  ivhi( 

•thu  brotlierly  g  had  sliimheroV!,  awoke,  aiid  cried  to  her. 

am;  ;n   -My  .ii;.'-,.st  in  my  v.c;  .;■,   -;  awful  vol  •,  whoscv  sin  has  heci 

it's  c(i//(J,  Mrs.  J.     Shall  I  tell  you  >■.  •  (1,  repent  't,  is  not  yet  too  late. ' 

I'n,  tn  hr    ,-.,t  rifl  nP,   nt  auv  prif"    :'■  -'    ■■'  -  -,,,.,  ,  ,   ,     •  -  i'  -n  came  bad 

t.'ie  bolti  .  rebelled  Li  ^  rigid  l.^w- 

'^•^''(^  n  ;  .!ujsc  irons  y  to.f„ll  intn 

apulupoa;  !:•.  1.;  aa»i,    a   vv\./,-.o   b.i.iivijjjiC;  only  tq  submit,  ^o  a  stronger 

;.     I've  got  a  c  .  rit  their    tyranny.     She  had  been  a  servant  of  the  God  of 

view^.    If  n  •  '  '  '  "        fire,  and  had  rebelled  when  an  oflcring  wn . 

here  and  ha^  >.Jcd  of  her.    ^ho  liad  cast  oil"  the  yoke  v 

dnd  riot  in  r.  _.     lasler,  and  had  yielded  hcrsidf  up  the  slav' 

But  I've  a  co  nf  sin.     And  now,  when  she  cTftcovcred  whith-i 

in  Jamaica  u  lier  chains  had  dragged  her,  she  was  seized  will 

eiied  of  me.*  ;  a  sudden  panic,  and  wanted  to  go  back  to  her  oh: 

'  Olivia  had  listened  to/r'I  this  With  an  impa-    Master.    ; 

tient  frown  upon  her  face.  I  doubt  if  she  knew  )  She  stood  for  some  minutes  witli  her  open 
the  mtvaning  of  Mr.  Weston's  complaints.  She  palms  pressed  upon  her  forehead,  and  her  chest 
had  been  listening  only  for  the  one' name  that  bad  }  heaving  as  if  a  stormy  sea  had  raged  in  her 
pdwcr  to  transform  her  from  a  breathing  autom- ;  bosom. 

aton  intb'  a  living,  thinking,  reasoning  woman.  J  'This  marriage  must  not  take  place,' she  cried, 
She  grasped  the  surgeon's  Wrist  fiercely.  'j  at  last. 

'You  told  me  you  came  here  to  speak  about  j  'Of  course  it  musn't,'  answered  Mr.  We.st6n; 
Edward  Arundel,'  she  said.  'HaTe  you  been  only  i  'didn't  I  say  so  just  now.''  And  if  you  don't  speak 
trying  lo  make  a  fool  of  me."     "    ''      •  -(to  Paul  and  prevent  it,  I  will.     I'd  rather  you 

'No,  Mrs.  John;  1  have  come  l:<5  speak  about  >  spoke  to  him.  thoifgh,|  added  the  surgeon, 
him,  and  Iconic  to  you,  because  I  think  you're  !  thoughtfully;  'because,  you  see,  it  would  come 
not  so  bad    as   Paul   Marchmont.     I  think  that    better  from  you,  wouldn't  it,  now.?'  i 

ypu'vc  I  '.  likc'myself;  and  they've  led  ■      Olivia  JMarchmont  did  not  answer.     Her  hands 

you  on,  1,  from  bad  to  wor.-c,  pretty    had  droppecl  from  her  head,  and  she  was  standing 

much  as  :  •    Id  nic.  You're  Edward  Arun-    looking  at  tne  floor, 

del's  biood  ioir>tion,  anil  it's  your'busincss  to  look  'There  shall  be  no  marriage,'  she  muttered, 
to  any  wrong  thiU's  done  him  more  thnii  i'  i  '  ivith  a  wild  laugli.  'There's  another  heart  to  be 
mine.     But  if  you  don't  speak,  Mr?.  i — that's  all.  Stand  aside,  man,' she  cried; 

Edward  Arundel  is  going  to  be  mar,  aside,  and  let  me  go  to-  /ii»i;  let  mc  go  to 

•Going  to  be  married  !'    The  wonis  [iiir--  ir  .  .     ,ii;,i.' 
I    Olivia's  lips  in  a  kind  of  .shriek,  and  slij  stood        She  pushed   the   terrified   surgeon  out  of  her 
"■I'lring  hideously  at  the  surgeon,  with  her  lips    pathway,  unlocked  the  door,  hurried  along  the 
rt  and  her  eyes  dilated.     Mr.  Weston  was   passage   and   across  the  hall.     She   opened  the 
inated  by  the  Imrror  of  tliat  gaze, "and  stared  '  door  of  the  western  drawing-room  and  went  in. 
at  her  in  silence  for  some  moments,     'You  are  a  |      Mr.  Weston  stood  in  the  corridor  looking  after 
madman  !'  she  exclaimed,  al'tcr  a  pause;  'you  are  j  her.     He  waited  for  a  few  minutes,  listening  for 
a  madman  !     Why  do  you  come  herewith  your 'any  sound  that   miglil    come  from   the  western 
idiotic   fancies.'    Surely    my  life    is    miserable  j  drawing-room.     Bui  the  wide  stone  hall  was  be- 
enough  without  this!'  'tween    him    :ii;d    tliiit.    :  nart'iiriiL;    and    hoW(BVer 


140  JOHN  MAKCHMONT'S  LEGACY. 

loudly  the  voices  might  have  been  uplifted,  no  ;  points  tightening  upon  his  ne.ck.    He  was  afraid. 
breath  of  them  could  have  reached  the  surgeon's  j  of  Olivia. 

ear  He  wailed  for  about  five  minutes,  and  then  \  'My  dear  Mrs.  John,  what  is  it  you  want  of 
crept  into  the  lobby  and  let  himself  out  into  the  ;  me  ?'  he  said,  hastily.  'Pray  do  not  be  violent.' 
quadrangle.  '1  am  not  violent.' 

'At  any  rate,  nobody  can  say  that  I'm  a  cow-  \      She  dropped  her  hand  from  his  breast.     It  was    ■ 
ard,'  he  thought  complacently,  as  he  went  under'  true,  she  was  not  violent,     lier  voice  was  low; 
a  stone  archway  thut  led  into  tlie  park.     'But  J  her  hand  fell  loosely  by  her  side.    But  Paul  was 
what  a  whirlwmd  that  woman  is!     O  my  gra-    frightened  of  her,  nevertheless;  for  he  saw  that 
cious,  what  a  perfect  whirlwind  she  is  !'  if  she  was  not  violent,  she  was  something  worse 

-  — she  was  dangerous. 

'Did  George  Weston   tell  me  the  truth  just 

♦•♦ '/  now  ?'  she  said. 

J     Paul  bit  his  nether  lip  savagely.     George  Wes- 

.  ton  had  tricljed  him,  then,  after  all,  and  had  com- 

CHAPTER  XXXVU.  jmunicated  with  this  woman.    But  what  of  that.' 

„    >  ;  She  would  scarcely  be  likely  to  trouble  herself 

•going   to    be   married.  ,^^^^^  ^^j^  busmess  of  Edward  Arundel's  mar- 

Paul  Marchmont  was  still  strolling  hither  and  |  riage.     She  must  be  past  any  such  folly  as  that. 

thither  about  the  room,  admirmg  his  pictures,  J  She  would  not  dare  to  interfere  in  the  mattec 

and  smiling  to  himself  at  the  recollection  of  the  ;  She  could  not. 

easy  manner  in  which  he  had  obtained  George  1      'Is   it   true?'  she  said; 'is  it?    Is  it  true  that  ' 
Weston's  consent  to  the  Australian  arrangement.  I  Edward   Arundel    is    going    to  be   married   to- 
For  in  his  sober  moments  the  surneoQ  was  ready  (  morrow?' 

to  submit  to  any  thing  his  wife  and  brother-in- (      She  waited,  looking  with  fixed,  widely-opened 
law  imposed  upon  him.     It  was  only  under  the  {  eyes  at  Paul's  face. 

influence  of  pine-apple  rum  that  his  manhood  as- 1  'My  dear  Mrs.  John,  you  take  me  so  cooi- 
serted  itself.  Paul  was  still  contemplating  his  j  pletely  by  surprise  that  I — ' 
pictures  when  Olivia  burst  into  the  room;  but(  'That  you  have  not  got  a  lying  answer  ready 
Mrs.  Marchmont  and  her  invalid  daughter  had  ;  for  me,' said  Olivia,  interrupting  him.  'You  need 
retired  for  the  night,  and  the  artist  was  alone — -not  trouble  yourself  to  invent  one.  I  see  ij^at 
alone  with  his  own  thoughts,  which  were  rather  George  Weston  told  me  the  truth.  There  was 
of  a  triumphal  and  agreeable  character  just  now;  /  reality  in  his  words.  TKere  is  nothing  but  false- 
for  Edward's  marriage  and  Mr.  Weston's  depar-j  hood  in  yours.' 

ture  were  equally  pleasant  to  him.  '  j      Paul  stood  looking  at  her,  but  not   listening 

He  was  startled  a  little  by  Olivia's,  abrupt  en-  to  her.  Let  her  abuse  and  upbraid  him  to  her 
trance;  for  it  was  not  her  habit  to  intrude  upon  j  heart's  content;  it  gave  him  leisure  to  reflect,  and 
him  or  any  member  of  that  household;  on  the)  plan  his  course  of  action;  and  perhaps  these  bit- 
contrary,  she  had  shown  an  obstinate  determina-  f  ter  words  miglit  exhaust  the  fire  within  her,  and 
tion  to  shut  herself  up  in  her  own  room,  and  to  !  leave  her  malleable  to  his  skillful  hands  once 
avoid  every  living  creature  except  her  servant  i  more.  He  had  time  to  think  this,  and  to  settle 
Barbara  Simmons.  '  J  his  own  line  of  conduct  while  Olivia  was  speak- 

Paul  turned  and  confronted  her  vet'y  deliber-  jng  to  him.  It  was  useless  to  deny  the  marriage, 
ately,  and  with  the  smile  that  was  almost  habit- j  She  had  heard  of  it  from  George  Weston,  and 
ual  to  him  upon  his  thin,  pale  lips.  Her  sudden  i  she  might  hear  of  it  from  any  one  else  whom  she 
appearance  had  blanched  his  face  a  little;  but  be- !  chose  to  interrogate.  It  was  useless  to  try  to 
yond-this  he  betrayed  no  sign  of  agitation.  •  \  stifle  this  fact. 

'My  dear  Mrs.  Marchmont,  you  quite  startle;  'Yes,  Mrs.  John,'  he  said,  'it  is  quite  true, 
me.  It  is  so  very  unusual  to  see  you  here,  and  at  (  Your  cousin,  Mr.  Arundel,  is  going  to  marry  Be- 
this  hour  especially.'  f  linda  Lawford;  a  very  lucky  thing  for  us,  believe 

It  did  not  seem  as  if  she  had  heard  his  voice.  (  me,  as  it  will  put  an  end  to  all  questioning  and 
She  went  sternly  up  to  him,  with  her  thin  list-  j  watching  and  suspicion,  and  place  us  beyond  all 
less  arms  hanging  at  her  side,  and  her  haggard*  danger.' 

eyes  fixed  upon  his  face.  ,  Olivia  looked  at  him,  with  her  bosom  heaving, 

'Is  this  true?'  she  asked.  j  her  breath  growing  shorter  andlouder  with  every 

He  started  a  little,  in  spite  of  himself;  for  he    word  he  spoke, 
understood  in  a  moment  what  she  meant.     Some        'You  mean  to  let  this  be,  then?'  she  said,  when 
one,  it  scarcely  mattered  who,  had  told  her  of   he  had  finished  speaking, 
the  coming  marriage.  j      'To  let  what  be?' 

'Is  what  true,  my  dear  Mrs.  John?'  he  said,  |      'This  marriage.     You  will  let  it  take  place?' 
carelessly.  'Most  certainly.     Why  should  I  prevent  it?' 

'Is  this  true  that  George  Weston  tells  me?'  she}  'Why  should  you  prevent  it?' she  cried,  fiercely; 
cried,  laying  her  thin  hand  upon  his  shoulder. ;  and  then,  in  an  altered  voice,  in  tones  of  an- 
Hdf  wasted  fii.gers  closed  irjvoluntarily  upon  the  j  guish,  that  were  like  a  wail  of  despair,  she  ex- 
coiiar  of  his  coat,  her  thin  lips  contracted  into^  a  ,  claimed, 'O  my  God!  my  God!  what  a  dupe  I 
ghastly  smile,  and  a  sudden  fire  kindled  in  her  .have  been;  what  a  miserable  tool  in  this  man's 
eyes.  A  strange  sensation  awoke  in  the  tips  of';hands!  O  my  offended  God  !  why  didst  Thou  so 
those  tightening  fingers,  and  thrilled  through  ;;  abandon  me,  when  I  turned  away  from  Thee,  and 
.every  vein  of  the  woman's  body — such  a  horrible;^  made  Edward  Arundel  the  idol  of  my  wicked 
thrill  as  vibrates  along  the  nerves  of  a  monoma-j; heart?' 

niac,  wbeu  the  sight  of  a  dreadful  terror  in  his;     Paul  sank  into  the  nearest  chair,  with  a  faint 
victim's  face  first  arouses  the  murderous  impulse ;;  sigh  of  relief. 

iuhishreast.  ;!     'She  will  wear  herself  out,'  he  thought, 'and 

Paul's  face  whitened  as  he  felt  the  thin  finger' ,  then  I  shall  be  able  to  do  what  I  like  with  her.' 


JOHN  MARCHMONT'S  LEGACY. 


141 


But  Olivia  turned  to  him  again  while  he  was 
thinkit  g  thi'<. 

'Do  you  imagine  that  I  will  let  this  marriage 
take  place?'  she  asked. 

'I  do  not  think  you  will  be  so  mad  as  to  pre- 
Tent  it.  That  little  mystery  which  you  and  I 
have  arranged  between  us  is  not  exactly  child's 
play,  Mrs.  John.  We  can  neither  of  us  afford  to 
betray  the  other.  Let  Edward  Arundei  marry, 
and  work  for  his  wife,  and  be  happy;  nothing 
could  be  better  for  us  than  his  marriage.  Indeed, 
we  have  every  reason  to  be  thankful  to  Provi- 
dence for  the  turn  that  affairs  have  taken,' Mr. 
Marchmont  concluded,  piously. 

'Indeed  !' said  Olivia: 'and  Edward  Arundel  ,is 
to  have  another  bride.  He  is  to  be  happy  with 
another  wife;  and  I  am  to  hear  of  their  happi- 
ness, to  see  him  some  day,  perhaps,  sitting  by  her 
side  and  smiling  at  her,  as  1  have  seen  him  smile 
at  Mary  Marchmont.  He  is  to  be  happy,  and  I 
um  to  know  of  his  happiness.  Another  baby- 
faced  girl  is  to  glory  in  the  knowledge  of  his  love, 
and  I  am  to  be  quiet — I  am  to  be  cjuiet.  Is  it  for 
this  that  I  have  sold  my  soul  to  you,  Paul  March- 
mont? Is  it  for  this  I  have  shared  your  guilty 
secrets?  Is  it  for  this  I  have  heard  /icr  feeble 
v/ailing  sounding  in  jxiy  wretched  feverish  slum- 
bers, as  I  have  heard  it  every  night  since  the  day 
she  left  this  house?  Do  you  remember  what  you 
said  to  me  ?  Do  you  remember  how  it  was  you 
tempted  me  ?  Do  you  remember  how  you  played 
upon  my  misery,  and  traded  on  the  tortures  of 
my  jealous  heart?  "He  has  despised  your  love," 
you  said;  "will  you  consent  to  see  him  happy  with 
another  woman?"  That  was  your  argument, 
Paul  Marchmont.  You  allied  yourself  with  the 
devil  that  held  possession  of  my  breast,  and  to- 
gether you  were  too  strong  for  me.  1  was  set 
apart  to  be  damned,  and  you  were  the  chosen  in- 
strument of  *my  damnation.  You  bought  my 
soul,  Paul  Marchmont.  You  shall  not  cheat  me 
of  the  price  for  which  I  sold  it.  You  shall  hinder 
•this  marriage.' 

•You  are  a  mad  woman,  Mrs.  John  March- 
mont, or  you  would  not  propose  any  such  thine;.' 

'Go,'  she. said,  pointing  to  the  door;  'go  to  Ed- 
ward Arundel,  and  do  something,  no  matter  what, 
to  prevent  this  marriage.' 

'I  shall  do  nothing  of  the  kind.' 

He  had  heard  that  a  monomaniac  was  always 
to  be  subdued  by  indomitable  resolution,  and  he 
looked  at  Olivia,  thinking  to  tame  her  by  his  un- 
faltering glance.  He  might  about  as  well  have 
tried  to  look  the  raging  sea  into  calmness. 

'I  am  not  a  fool,  Mrs.  John  Marchmont,'  he 
said,  'and  I  shall  do  nothing  of  the  kind.' 

He  had  risen,  and  stood  by  the  lamp-lit  table, 
trifling  rather  nervously  with  its  elegant  litter  of 
delicately-bound  books,  jeweled-handled  paper- 
knives,  newly-cut  periodicals,  atid  pretty  wo- 
manly toys  collected  by  the  women  of  the  house- 
hold. 

The  faces  of  the  two  were  nearly  upon  a  level 
as  they  stood  opposite  to  each  other,  with  only 
the  table  between  them. 

'Then  /  will  prevent  it !'  Olivia  cried,  turning 
toward  the  door. 

Paul  Marchmont  saw  tlie  resolution  stamped 
upon  her  face.  She  would  do  what  she  threat- 
ened. He  ran  to  the  door  and  had  his  hand 
upon  the  lock  before  she  could  reacli  it. 

'No,  Mrs,  John,'  he  said,  standing  at  the  door, 
with  his  back  turned  to  Olivia,  and  his  fingers 
busy  witli  the  bolUj  and  key.    In  spite  of  himself, 


this  woman  had  made  him  a  little  ncryous,  and 
;  it  was  as  much  as  he  could  do  to  find  the  handle 
of  the  key.  'No,  no,  my  dear  Mrs.  John;  you 
shall  not  leave  this  house,  nor  this  room,  in  your 
present  stale  of  mind.  If  you  choose  to  be  vio- 
lent and  unmanageable,  we  will  give  you  the  full 
benefit  of  your  violence,  and  we  will  give  you  a 
better  sphere  of  action.  A  padded  room  will 
be  more  suitable  to  your  present  temper,  my  dear  ' 
madam.  If  you  favor  us  with  this  sort  of  con- 
:  duct,  we  will  find  people  more  fitted  to  restrain 

;  you.' 

He  said  all  this  in  a  sneering  tone,  that  had  a 
triHmg  iremulousness  in  it,  while  he  locked  the 
door,  and  assured  himself  that  it  was  safely  se- 
cured.    Tiien  he  turned,  prepared  to  fight  the 
battle  out  somehow  or  other. 
;      At  the  very  moment  of  his  turning  there  was  a 
!  sudden  crash,  a  shiver  of  broken  glass,  and  the 
]  C9ld  night  wind  blew  into  the  room.     One  of  the 
,  long  French  windows  was  wide  open,  and  Olivia 
]  Marchmont  was  gone.  • 

;  He  was  out  upon  the  terrace  in  the  next  mo- 
i  ment;  but  even  then  he  was  too  late,  for  he  could 
;  not  see  her  right  or  left  of  him  upon  the  long 
stone  platform.  There  were  three  separate 
;  flights  of  steps,  three  different  paths,  widely  di- 
\  verging  across  the  broad  grassy  flat  before  March- 
j  mont  Towers.  She  might  have  gone  either  way. 
^  There  was  the  great  potch,  and  all  manner  of 
)  stone  abutments  along  the  grim  fa9ade  of  the 
\  house.  She  might  have  concealed  herself  be- 
)  hind  any  one  of  them.  The  night  was  hopelessly 
jdark.  A  pair  of  handsome  bronze  lamps,  which 
!  Paul  had  placed  before  the  principal  doorway, 
jonly  made  two  spots  of  light  in  the  gloom.  He 
Jran  along  the  terrace,  looking  into  every  nook 
;and  corner  which  might  have  served  as  a  hiding- 
',; place;  but  he  did  not  find  Olivia.  ' 
!  She  had  left  the  house  with  the  avowed  in- 
;lention  of  doing  something  to  prevent  the  mar- 
!  riage.  What  would  she  do  ?  What  course  would 
^this  desperate  woman  take  in  her  jealous  rage? 
'  Would  she  go  straight  to  Edward  Arundel  and 
hell  him— 

;     Yes;  this  was  most  likely;  for  how  else  could 

'  she  hope  to  prevent  the  marriage  ? 

]     Paul  stood  quite  still  upoa  the  terrace  for  a 

kw    minutes,   thinking.     There    was    only  one 

course  for  him.     To  try  and  find  Olivia  would  be 

next  to  hopeless.     There  were  half  a  dozen  out- 

;  lets  from  the  park.     There  were  ever  so  many 

V  different  pathways  through  the  woody  labyrinth 

at  tl;e  back  of  the  Towers.     'J'his  woman  might 

f  have  taken  any  one  of  them.     To  waste  the  night 

in  searching  for  her  would  be  worse  than  useless. 

There  was   only  one   thing   to  be  done.     He 

must    counter-check    this    desperate    creature's 

movements. 

I  He  went  back  to  the  drawing-room,  shut  the 
!  winflow,  and  then  rang  the  bell. 
I  There  were  not  many  of  the  old  servants  who 
Jhad  waited  upon  John  Marchmont  at  the  To^'crs 
now.  The  man  who  answered  the  bell  was  a 
'person  whom  Paul  had  brought  down  from  Lon- 
Jdon. 

!  'Get  the  chestnut  saddled  for  me,  Peterson,' 
!said  Mr.  Marchmont.  'My  poor  cousin's  widow 
■has  left  the  house,  and  1  am  going  after  her. 
She  has  given  me  very  great  alarm  to-night  by 
i  her  conduct.  I  tell  you  this  in  confidence;  but 
■you  can  !>ay  as  much  to  Mrs.  Simmons,  who 
:  knows  more  about  her  mistress  than  I  do.  See 
that  tiierc's  no  time  lost  in  saddling  the  chest- 


142  JOHN  MARCHMOI^T'S  LEGACY. 

nut.  I  want  to  overtake  this  unhappy  woman  if  >  the  horse's  bridle  to  one  of  these,  and  went  up 
1  can.  Go  and  give  the  order,- and  then  bring  me /the  steps.  He  rang  a  bell  that  went  clanging  and 
my  hat.'  ^j^i^g'iig  through  the  house  in  the  stillness, of  the 

The  man  went  away  to  obey  his  master.  Paul  ^^summer  night.  All  the  way  along  the  road  he 
walked  to  the  chimney-piece  and  looked  at  the)  had  looked  right  and  left,  expecting  to  pass 
clock..  ;!  Olivia;  but  he  had  seen  no  sign  of  her.     This  was 

'They'll  be  gone  to  bed  at  the  Grange,'  he  ^nothing,  however;  for  there  were  by-ways  by 
thought  to  himself.  'Will  she  go  there  and  knock  I  which  she  might  come  from  Marchmont  Towers 
them  up,  I  wonder?     Does  she  know  tnat  Ed->  to  Luwford  Grange. 

ward's  there?  I  doubt  that;  and.  yet  Weston^  'I  must  be  before  her,  at  any  rate,'  Paul 
may  have  told  her.  At  any  rati,  I  can  be  there  ^thought  to  himself,  ds  he  waited  patiently  for  an 
before  her.     It  would  take  her  a  long  time  to  get ',  answer  to  his  summons. 

thereon  foot.  I  think  1  did  the  right  thing  in;!  The  time  seemed  very  long  to  him,  of  course; 
sayino-  what  1  said  to  Peterson.  1  must  have  the  ^  but  at  last  he  saw  a  light  glimmering  through  the 
report  of  her  madness  spread  every  where. _  1  ^mansion  windows,  and  heard  a  shuffling  foot  in 
must  face  it  out.  lint  how — but  how?  So  lo'ng  ^  the  hail.  Then  the  door  ivas  opened  very  c'au- 
as  she  was  quiet  I  couid  manage  every  thing.  But '/  (.iously,  and  a  woman's  scared  lace  peered  out  at 
with  her  against  mt,  and  George  Weston — oh,  ^Mr.lMarchmont  through  the  opening, 
the  cur,  the  white-hearted  villain,  after  all  tJftit  {  'What  is  it?'  the  woman  asked,  in  a  frightened 
I've  done  for  him  and  Lavinia  !     But  what  can  a)  voice. 

nan  expect  v,'hen  he's  ouiiged  to  put  his  trust  in  J     'It  is  I,  Mr.  Marchmont,  of  JVIarchmontTo  ■ 
I  fool?'  'ers.     Your  master  knows  me.     Mr.  Arundel 

He  went  to  the  window,  and  stood  there  look- /'here,  is  he  not?' 
in"- out  until  he  saw  the  groom  coming  along  the '.     'Yes,  and  Mrs.  Arundel,  too;  but  they'ra  all, 
gravel  roadv/ay  below  the  terrace,  leading  a  horse  ;i  abed. '  ^ 

by  the  bridle.     Then  he  put  on  the  hat  that  the  ^;     'Never  mihd  that.     I  must  3€C  Major  JLiawfo ; 
servant  had  broughfhim,  ran  down  the  steps,  and.  immediately.-'  ■'     ' 

got  into  the  saddle.  /     'But  they're  all  abed.' 

'Ail  right,  Jeffreys,' he  said;  'tell  them  not  to  ,;;  'Never- mind  t.fikt,;my  good  •\roinan;  I  tell  you 
expect  me  back  till  to-morrow  morning.    Let  / 1  must  see  him;' 

Mrs.  Simmons  sit  up  for  her  mistress.  Mrs.  John  '     'But  won't  to-morroW  n^ornin'do?  ■  It's'  tic, 
may  return  at  any  hour  in  the  night.'  f. three  o'clock,  and.to'-morrov/'s  our  eldest  ihi;;,. 

lie  galloped  av/ay  along  the  smooth  carriage-;!  weddin '-day,  and  they're  all  abed.' 
drive.     Afthe  lodge  he  stopped  to  inquire  if  any  /     'I  must  see  your  master.      I'or  mercy's  sal:   ,  , 
one  had  been  through  that  way.     No,  the  woman  ,■;  my  good  woman,  do  what  I  tell  j^cu.     Go  m, 
said;  she  had  opened  the  gates  for  no  one.     Paul  /call  up  Major  Lawford— you  can  do  it  quietly 
.ad   expected   no  other  answer.     There  was  a;! and  tell. him  I  must  speak  to  him  at  once.' 
.jotpath  that  led  to  a  little  wicket  gate  opening:^     The  woman,  v/ith  the  chain  of  ^le  dfv,>r  si 
on  the  high-road;  and  of  course  Olivia  had  chosen /'between  her  and  Mr.  Marchmont,  took  a  tim. 
that  way,  which  was  a  good  deal  shprter  than  ^survey  of  Paul's  face.      She  had  hcprd  of  liii 
the  carria"-e-drive.  *       '    ;often  enough,  but  had  never  se^en  him  befo; 

^and  she  was  rather  doubtful. as  to  his  identi: 

>She  knew  that  thieves   and"  robbers  resorted  . 

***  ^lall  sorts  of  tricks  in  the  course  of  their  evil  ^ 

'^cation.     Mightn 't this  application  for  admittaii 

CHAPTER  XXXVIII.  /in  the  dead  of  tlie.  night  be  only  a  part  of  son 

/burglarious    plot   aganist  the  sooons  and  forks, 
THE  TURNING  OF  THE  TIDE  ^  and 'that  hereditary  sih^er  urn  with  lit^ns' Jieads 

It  was  past  two  o'clock  in  the  morning  of  the /holding  rings  in  their  mouths  for  handles,  the 
day  which  had  been  appointed  for  Edward  Arun-<fame  of- which  had  no  doubt  ch-cuiated  through- 
"dcl's  wedding,  when  Paul  Marchmont  drew  rein /out  all  Lincolnshire!  Mr.  Marchmont  had  nei- 
hefore  the  white  gate  that  divided  Major  Law-/ther  a  black  mask  nor  a  dark  lantern,  and  to  Mar- 
ford's  garden  from  the  high-road.  There  .was /tl(a  Philpot's  mind  these  wpre  essential  attributes 
no  lod"-e,  no  pretense  of  grandeur  here.  An  old- '/of  the  legitimate  burglar-;  but  he  might  be  bur- 
fashioned  garden  surrounded  an  old-fashioned /glariously  disposed,  nevertheless,  and  It 'would  be 
red-brick  house.'  There  was  an  apple-orchard  ;!w6ll"to  be  oh  the  safe  side.  .  , 
upon  one  side  of  the  low  while  gate,  and  a /.,]!. 'I'll  go  and  tell 'em,' the  discreet  Martha  said, 
llower-garden,  with  a  lawn  and  fish-pond,  upon /civijly;  'but  perhaps  you  won't  mind  my  leaving 
the  other.  The  carriage-drive  wound  sharply  ^the  chain  oop.  ■  It  ain't  like  as  if  it  was  Winter,' 
round  to  a  shallow  flight  of  steps,  and   a  broad  | she  added,  apologetically.    •  -•       , 

door  with  a  narrow  wnidow  upon  each  side  of  it.       'You  may  shut  the  door  if  you  like,.'  answered 

Paul  got  off  his  horse  at  the  gate,  and  went  in,  Paul;  'only  be  quick  and  wake  your  master.  You 
I'eadiii"-  the  aflimal  by  the  bridle.  He  vi^af  a  [can  tell  him  that  1  want  to  see  him  upon  a  matte, 
cockney  heart  and  soul,  and  had  no  sense  of  anv^of  life  and  d  ith.' 

enioynients  that  v/ere  not  of  a  cockney  nature'.  ^  Martha  huiried  away,  and  Paul  stood  upon  th_ 
So  the  horse  he  had  selected  for  himself  was  any  ]  broad  stone  steps  waiting  for  her  return. ,  Every 
thin"- but  a  fiery  creature.  He  liked  plenty  of  >  moment  was  precious  to  him,  for  he  wanted  to  be 
bone  and  very  little  blood  in  the  steed  he  rode, 'beforehand  v/ith  Olivia.  He  had  no  thought  rr 
and  was  contented  to  go  at  a  comfortable  jog- {ce*pt4.hat  she  would  come  straight  to  the  Gran 
trot  seven-miles-an-hour  pace,  along  the  wretch- J  to  see  Edward  Arundel;  unless,  indeed,  she  Wa» 
ed  country  roads.  ;  by  any  chance  ignorant  of  his  whereabouts. 

There  was  a  row  of  old-fashioned  wooden:;  Presently  the  light  appeared  again  in  the  nar- . 
nosls  with  iron  chains  swinging  between  them,.;  row  windows,. and  this  time  a  man's  foot  sounded 
upon  both  sides  of  the  doorwaj'    Paul  fastened  I  upon  the  stone-flagg^hall.  This  time,  too,  Mar- 


JOHN  MARCHMONT'S  LE&ACY. 


143 


tlia  let  down  the  chain,  and  opened  the  door  wide 
cpough  for  Mr.  Marchniont  to  enter.  She  had  no 
fear  of  bur;j;larious  marauders  now  that  the  valiant 
Major  was  at  her  elbow. 

'i'/lr.  Marchniont,'  exclaimed  the  old  soldier. 
opening  a  tloor  leading;  into  a  little  study,  'you'll 
excuse  ine  if  I  seem  rather  Ijewildered  by*  your 
•visit.  When  an  old  fellow  like  mo  is  called  up  in 
the  middle  of  tiTe  night  he  can't  he  expected  to 
have  his  wits  about  him  just  at  first.  Martha, 
bring  us  ajight.  Sit  down  Mr.  Marchmont. — 
There's  a  chair  at  your  elbow  there.  And  .now,- 
may  I  asi<  the  reason — '  , 

,  'The  reason,  I've,  disturbed  you  in  this  abrupt 
manner.  The  occasion  that  brings  me  here  is  a 
Very  painful  one;  but  I  believe  tliat  my  coming 
may  save  you  and  yours  from  much  annoyance.' 

'Save  us  from  annoyance!  lleaily,  my  dear 
Sii",  you — ' 

•J  mystify  you  for  the  moment,  no  douht,'  Paul 
interposed,  blandly;  'but  if  you  will  nave  a  little 
patience  with  loe,  Major  Lawford,  I  think  lean 
make  every  thing  very  clear — only  too  painfully 
clear.  You  have  heard  of  my  relative,'  Mrs.  John 
Manchmont— my  cousin's  widow:' 

'f  have,'  answered  the  Major,  gravel)'. 

The  dark  scandals  thai  had  been  current  about 
wretclicd  Olivia  Marclimonl  came  inio  his  mind 
>\;itU  the  mention  of  her  name,  and  the  memory 
oC  thosQ  miserable  slanders  overshadowed  hi? 
frank  face.  .         • 

Paul  wailed  vvliile  IMartha  hroupht  in  a  smoky 
lamp,  v.ith  the  halfligiitcd  wicksputtering  and 
^truiighng  in  ils  oily  socket.  Thervhe  went  on,  in 
a  calm,  dispassionate  voice,  whic,h  seemed  tht 
v^co,^f  a  bcnevOlenl  Christian,  sublimely  remote 
from  other  people's  sorrows,  biit  tenderly  pitiful 
qf  suU'vting  l.umanity,  nevertheless. 

'You  have  hea^d  of  my  unhappy  cousin.     You 


have  no  (L; 

He  <Ii- 
h^  only 
thin,  fu- 

'Ihav 
Major 


inl  tl.at  she  is-t-niad?' 

ic«  i»,lo  so  JWv  a  whisper  ijiat ; 
ape  this  iast  word  wMh  hi 


:iie  rumor  to  that  efl'ect^' the 
.1.1,    ihat  is  to  say,  I  have  heard 
tb'ut  Mrs.  John  iMarchmonl  has  lately  become  ec- 
centric in  her  habits.* 

'Ithas.been  my  dismal  task  to  watch  the  slow 
(Jecay  of  a  very  powerful  intellect,'  continueci 
Paul.    'When  I  first  came  to  Mrirchmont  Towers, 
•  ;\buut  the  lime  of  niy  cousin   Hilary's  unfortunate 
elopement  with  Mr.  Aiiuidel,  that  mental  decaj 
liad  already  set  in.  Already  the  compass  of  Olivia 
JNlarchmqnt's  mind  had  become  reduced  to  a  mon- 
le,  and  the  one  dominant  thought  was  doing 
:  uinous  work.     It  was  niy  fate  to  find  the  clew 
III  that  sad  decay;  it  was  my  fate  very  speedily  to 
discover  the  nalure  of  that  all-absorhing  thought 
which,  little  by  li^jllc,-  had  grown  into  monoma- 
nia.' 

Major  Lawford  stared  at  his  visitor's  face.  He 
was, a  plain-spoken  man,  and  could  scarcely  see 
his  wsy  clearly  through  all  this  obscurity  of  line 
words. 

'You  mean  to  say  you  found  out  «  hat  hod  driven 
vwiir  cousijTs  widow  mad?'  he  said,  bluntly. 
V'ou  put  the  qyes-tion  very  pi^jiinly,  Major  L<»\v- 

:  i.  Yf's;  I  discoverer!  the  secret  of  my  unhappy 
relntive's  morbid  state  of  piii.d.  That  secret  lics^ 
in  the  fact,  that  for  the  lii,''t  ten  years  Orivin 
Marciimont  has  rherisfnd  a  hopelc!-.^  siQ'ection  for 
her  cousin,  Mr.  t]dward  Arui  del.' 

The  Major  almost  bounded  ciriiis  chair  in  hor- 
rified surprise. 


'Good  gracious!'  he  exclaimed;  'j'ou  surprise 
me,  Mr.  Marchmont,  and — and — rather  unpleas- 
antly.' 

'1  should  never  have  revealed  this  secret  to  you 
or  to  any  other  living  creature.  Major  Lawford, 
had  not  circurastaiu't-s  compelled  me  to  do  so.  As  * 
far  as  Mr.  Arundel  is  concerned,  I  can  set'your 
mind  quite  at  ease.  lie  has  chosen  to  insult  me 
very  grossly;  but  let  that  pass.  I  must  do  him  the 
justice  to  state  that  I  believe  him  to  have  been 
from  first  to  last  utterly  ignorant  of  the  slate  of 
his  cousin's  mind.' 

'1  hope  so.  Sir;  egad,  I  hope  so  !'  exclaimed  the 
Major,  rather  fiercely.  '  If  I  thought,  that  this 
young  man  had  trifled  with  the  lady's  affection; 
if  ]  thought—' 

'You  need  think  nothing  to  the  detriment  of  Mr. 
Arundel,' answered  Paul,  with  placid  politef^ess, 
'except  that  be  is  hot-beaded,  obstinate,  ;ind  fool- 
ish. He  is  a  young  man  of  excell'ent  principles, 
and  has  never  fathomed  the  secret  of  his  cousin's 
conduct  toward  him.  I  am  rather  a  close  ob- 
server— something  of  a  student  of  human  nature — 
and  I  iiave  watched  this  unhappy  woman.  She 
loves,  and  has  loved,  her  cousin  Edward  Arundel; 
and  hers  is  one  of  those  concenliative  natures  in 
which  a  great  passion  is  near  akin  to  a  monoma- 
nia. It  was  this,  bopelfs",  unrcturned  aflection 
that  embittered  her  character,  and  made  her  a 
harsh  8t«!p-mother  to  my  poor  cousin  Mary.  For 
ft  long  time  this  wretched  woman  has  been  very 
(iuii.t;  tftthi^r  tranquility  has  been  only  a  deceitful 
cr.lm.  To-night  the  sforuj  broke.  Olivia  March- 
mont heard  of  the  marriage  that  is  to  take  place 
lo  morrow;  and.  for  (he  first  time  a  stale  of  mcl- 
nnchoiy  mania  developed  into  absolute  violence. 
She  came  to  me,  and  attacked  me  upon  the  sub- 
ject of  this  intended  marringe.  She  accused  me 
of  having  plotted  to  give  Edward  Arundel  another 
bride;  and  then,  aflerexhaustingherself  by  a  foi- 
rent  of  passionate  invective  against  me^  agains-t 
her  cousin  Edward,  your  daughter — everyone  con- 
cerned in  to-morrow's  event — this  wretched  wo- 
man rushed  out  of  the  house  in  a  jealous  fuiy,  d^e- 
idarifig  that  sliu  would  do  something — no  matter 
vl  at — to  hindi-r  the  celebration  of  Edward  Arun- 
uel's  second  marriage.' 

'Good  Heavens  !'  gasped  the  Major.  'And  you 
mean  to  .say — ' 

•I  mean  to  say,  that  there  is  no  knowing  what 
may  be  attempted  by  a  mad  woman,  driven  mad 
by  a  jealousy  in  itself  almost  as  terrible  as  mad- 
ness. Olivia  Marchmont  has  sworn  to  hinder  your 
daughter's  marriage.  What  has  not  bren  done  by 
imhappy  creatures  in  this  woman's  statcof  mind  .' 
F/Very  day  we  read  of  such  things  in  the  newspa- 
pers— deeds  of  horror  at  which  (he  blood  grows 
cold  in  our  veins:  and  ^e  wonder  that  Heaven 
Can  permit  such  misery.  It  is  not  any  frivolous 
motive  that  brings  me  here  in.th'j  dead  of  the 
night,  Major  Lawford.  I  come  to  lull  you  that  a 
desperate  wotnan  has  sworn  to  hinder  to-morrow's 
:narringe.  Heaven  knows  what  she  may  do  in  her 
jealou3  I'renzy.     She  hktj/  atlacJc  your  daughter.' 

The  father's  face  grew  pale.  His  Linda,  his 
-larling,  exposed  Jo  tiic  fniy  of  a  mad  woman  !  He 
(*')nld  conjure  vp  the  seen*';  the  fair  girl  clinging 
to  her  lover's  breast,  and  (^speraie  Olivia  March- 
mont swooping  down  upon  her  like  an  angry  ti- 
irri.ss. 

'For  mercy's  sake,  tell  me  what  1  am  lo  do,  Mr. 
Marchmont!'  cried  the  Major.  'God  bless  you. 
Sir.  for  bringing  que  this  warning.    But  what  am 


144 


JOHN  MARCHMONT'S  LEGACY. 


I  to  do  ?    What  do  you  advise  ?      Shall  we  post-  \  let  for  some  years;  and  the  farm  was  in  the  charge 
pone  the  wedding?'  *  |  of  a  hind  in  Mr.  Marchmont's  service.  The  hind 

'On  no  account.  AW  you  have  to  do  is  to  keep  !  lived  in  a  cottage  at  the  other  extremity  of  the 
this  wretched  woman  at  bay.  Shut  your  doors  ^  farm;  and  Paul  had  erected  new  buildings,  with 
upon  her.  Do  not  let  her  be  admitted  to  this  engine-houses  and  complicated  machinery  for 
house  upon  any  pretense  whatever.  Get  the  wed- j  pumping  tiie  water  off  the  low-lying  lands.  Thus  it 
ding  over  an  hour  earlier  than  has  been  intended, if  j  was  that  the  old  farm-house  and ^he  old  farm-yard 
it  is  possible  for  you  to  do  so,  and  hurry  the  bride  ',  were  suffered  to  fall  into  decay.  The  empty  sties, 
and  bridegroom  away  upon  the  first  stages  of  their  |  the  ruined  barns  and  outhouses,  the  rotting  straw, 
wedding-tour.  If  you  wish  to  escape  all  the  (  and  pools  of  rank  corruption,  made  this  tenaat- 
wretchedness  of  a  public  scandal,  avoid  seeing  |  less  farm-yard  the  very  abomination  of 'deso la- 
this woman.'  '  tion.      Paul   Marchmont   opened   the   gate    and 

•1  will,!  will,' answered  the  bewildered  Major,  j  went  in.  He  picked  his  way  very  cautiously 
•It's  a  most  awful  situation.  My  poor  Belinda  !(  through  the  mud  and  filth,  leading  his  horse  by 
Her  wedding-day  !     And  a  mad  woman  to  attempt  <  the  bridle  till  he  came  to  an  outhouse,  where  he 

Upon   my   word,  Mr.  Marchmont,  1  don't  ■  secured  the   animal.     Then   he   picked  his  way 

know  how  to  thank  you  for  the  trouble  you  have  ;:  across  the  yard,  lifted  the  rusty  latch  of  a  narrow 
tjjl^en,'  ;  wooden  door  set  in  a  plastered  wall,  and  went 

'Don't  speak  of  that.  This  woman  is  my  cou-  into  a  disn>al  stone  court,  where  one  lonely  hea 
sin's  widow:  any  shame  of  hers  is  disgrace  to  me.  ■  was  moulting  in  miserable  solitude. 
Avoid  seeing  her.  If  by  any  chance  she  does  con-  ;  Long  rank  grass  grew  in  the  interstices  of  the 
trive  to  force  herself  upon  you,  turn  a  deaf  ear  i  flags.  The  lonely  hen  set  up  a  roopy  cackle,  and 
to  all  she  may  say.  She  horrified  me  to-irightby  fluttered  into  a  corner  at  sight  of  Paul  March- 
her  mad  assertions.  Be  prepared  for  any  thing  .  mont.  There  were  some  rabit-hutches,  tenant- 
she  may  declare.  She  is  possessed  by  all  manner  (  less;  a  dove-cote,  empty;  a  dog-kennel,  and  a 
of  delusions,  remember,  and  may  make  the  most  <  broken  chain  rusting  slowly  in  a  pool  of  water, 
ridiculous  assertions.  There  is  no  limit  to  her  }  but  no  dog.  The  court-yard  was  at  the  back  of 
hallucinations.  She  may  offer  to  bring  Edward  ■;  the  house,  looked  down  upon  by  a  range  of  lat- 
Arundel's  dead  wife  from  the  grave,  perhaps. —  {  ticed  windows,  some  with  closed  shutters,  others 
But  you  will  not,  on  any  account,  allow  her  to  ob-  S  with  shutters  swinging  in  the  wind,  as  if  they  ha:d 
tain  access  to  your  daughter.'  *  (been  fain  to   beat  themselves   to   death  in  very 

'No,  no;  on  no  account.     My  poor  Belinda  !     I  ^  desolation  of  spirit, 
am  very  grateful  to  you,  Mr.  Marchmont,  for  this  \      Mr.  Marchmont  opened  a  door  and  went  into 
warning.      Ypu'll  stop  here   for  the  rest  of  the  ^  the  house.     There  were  empty  cellars  and  pan- 
ni-^ht  ?     Martha's  beds  are  always  aired.     You'll  <  tries,  dairies  and  sculleries,  right  and  left  of  him. 
ac^cept  the  shelter  of  our  spare  room  until  to-mor-  \  The  rats  and  mice  scuttled  away  at  sound  of  the 


row  morning .-' 

'You  are  very  good,  Major  Lawford;  but  I  mus< 
liurry  away  directly.  Remember  that  I  am  quite 
ignorant,as  to  where  my  unhappy  relative  may  b* 
wandering  at  this  hour  of  the  night.  She  may  have 


intruder's   footfall.     The  spiders   ran   upon  the 
lamp-stained  walls,  and  the  disturbed  cobwebs 
floated  slowly  dpwn  from   the  cracked  ceilings 
and  tickled  Mr.  Marchmont's  face. 
Further  on  in  the  interior  of  the  gloomy  habi- 


returned  to  the  Towers.  Her  jealous  fury  may  i  tation  Paul  found  a  great  stone-paved  kitchen,  at 
have  exhausted  itself;  and  in  that  case  I  have  ex-  '  the  darkest  end  of  which  there  was  a  rusty  grate, 
ao-gerated  the  danger.  But,  at  any  rate,  I  thought  j  in  which  a  minimum  of  flame  struggled  feebly 
it^best  to  give  you  this  warning.'  I  with  a  maximum  of  smoke.    An  open  oven-door 

'Most  decidedly,  my  dear  Sir;  I  thank  you  from  i  revealed  a  dreary  black  cavern;  and  the  very 
the  bottom  of  my  heart.  But  you'll  take  some-  \  manner  of  the  rusty  door,  and  loose,  half-broken 
thing— wine,  tea,  brandy-and-water, — eh?'  {handle,  was  an  advertisement  of  incapacity  for 

Paul  had  put  on  his  hat  and  made  his  way  into  ;  any  homely  hospitable  use.  Pale,  sickly  fungi 
the  hall  by  this  time.  There  was  no  affectation  '  had  sprung  up  in  clusters  at  the  corners  of  the 
in  his  eagerness  to  be  away.  He  glanced  uneasily  ,  damp  hearth-stone.  Spiders  and  rats,  damp  and 
toward  the  door  every  now  and  then  while  the  cobwebs,  every  sign  by  which  Decay  writes  its 
Major  was  offering  hospitable  hindrance  to  his  de-  name  upon  the  dwelling  man  has  deserted,  had 
parlure.  He  was  very  pale,  with  a  haggard,  ashen  ;  set  its  separate  mark  upon  this  ruined  place, 
pallor  that  betraved  his  anxiety,  in  spite  of  bis  I  Paul  Marchmont  looked  round  him  with  a  con- 
bland  calmness  of  manner.  )  temptuous   shudder.     Pie   called    'Mrs.   Brown  ! 

'You  are  very  kind..    No;  I,  will  get  away  at  \  Mrs.  Brown  !'  two  or  three  times,  each  time  wait- 
once.     I  have  done  my  duty  here;  I  must  now  try 
and  do  what  I  can  for  this  wretched  woman. — 
Good-night.      Remember;  shut  your  door*  upon 

her.' 

He  unfastened  the  bridle  of  his  horse,  mounted,  I  and  the  low  latticed  window  looked  out  upon  a 
and  rode  away  slowly,  so  long  as  there  was  any  :  neglected  garden,  where  some  tall  fox-gloves 
chince  of  the  horse's  tread  being  heard  at  the  j  reared  their  gaudy  heads  among  the  weeds. 
Grang-e.  But  when  he  was  a  quarter  of  a  mile  ;  Across  the  garden  there  was  a  stout  brick  wall, 
away  from  Major  Lawford's  house,  he  urged  the  i  with  pear-trees  trained  against  it,  and  dragon 's- 
horie  into  a  gallop.  He  had  no  spurs;  but  he  used  !;  mouth  and  wall-flower  waving  in  the  morning 
his  whip  with  a  ruthless  hand,  and  went  off  at  a  '  breeze. 

tearing  pace  along  a  narrow  lane,  where  the  ruts        There  was  a  bed  in  this  room,  empty;  an  easy- 
were  deep.  rhair  near  the  window;  near  that  a  little  table, 

He  rode  for  fifteen  miles;  and  it  was  gray  morn- ;  and  a  set  of  Indian  chessmen.  Upon  the  bed  there 
ine  when  he  drew  rein  at  a  dilapidated  five-barred  ;  were  some  garments  scattered,  as"  if  but  lately 
eate  leading  into  the  great,  tenantless  yard  of  an  |  flung  there;  and  upon  the  floor,  near  the  fire- 
uniobabited  farm-house.    The  place  bad  been  un- '  place,  there  were  the  fragment*  of  a  child's  first 


)  ing  for   an   answer;   but  none   came,   and  Mr. 
i  Marchmont  passed  on  into  another  room. 

Here  at  least  there  was  some  poor  pretense  of 
;  comfort.     The  room  was  in  the  front  of  the  house. 


JOHN  MARCHMONT'S  LEGACY. 


14S 


toys— a  tiny  trumpet,  bought  at  some  village  fair,  |  licepse  in  this.case;  for  Miss  Lawford's  chamber 
ajpaby's  rattle,  and  a  broken  horse.  (was   a  roomv,   old-fashioned   apartment  at  tho 

Taul    Marchmont  looked  about  him;   a  little  j  b^ck  of  the  house,  with  deSp  window-seals  and 
puzzled  first,  then  with  a  vague  dread  in  his  hag- idi»mond-paned  casements, 
gard  face.  tk    ]     The  sun  shone,  and  the  roses  bloomed  in  all 

•Mrs.  Brown  !'  he  cried,  in  a  loud  voice,  Kur- i  their  summer  glory.  "Twas  in  the  time  of  roses,' 
rying  across  the  room  toward  an  inner  door  as  he  |  as  gentle-minded  Thomas  Hood  so  sweetly  sang: 
spoke.  stirely  the  time  of  all  others  for  a  bridal  morning. 

The  inner  door  was  opened  before  Paul  could  '  The  girl  looketl  out  into  the  sunshine,  with  her 
reach  it,  and  a  woman  appeared;  a  tall,  gaunt- { loose  auburn  hair  falling  about  her  shoulders,  and 
looking  woman,  with  a  ihard  face  and  bare,  linp:cred  a  little,  lookina:  at  the  familiar  garden, 
brawny  arms.  with  a  half-pensive  smile.  ^ 

'Where,  in  Heaven's  name,  have  you  been  i  'Oh,  how  often,  how  often,'  she  said, 'I  have 
hiding  yourself,  woman  r'  Paul  cried  impatiently,  walked  up  and  down  by  those  laburnums,  Letty !' 
'And  Where's  your  patient?'  There  were  two  pretty  while-curtained  bedste-ads 

*Gone,  Sir.'  in  thfe  old-fashioned  room,  and  Miss  Arundel  had 

'Gone!     Where?'  i  shared  her  friend's  apartment  fur  the  last  week. 

'With  her  step-mamma,  Mrs.  Marchmont— not  j'How  often  manfma  and  1  havesnt  ^nder  the  dear 
half  an  hour  ago.  As  it  was  your  wish  I  should  \  old  cedar,  making  our  poor  children's  frocks! 
stop  behind  to  clear  up,  I've  done  so.  Sir;  but  1  People  say  monotonous  lives  are  not  happy:  mine 
did  think  it  would  have  been  better  for  me  tQJ  has  been  the  snme  thing  over  and  over  again;  and 
have  gone  with — '  '  vet  how  happy  1  have  been  !     And  to  think  that 

Paul  clutched  the  woman  by  the  arm,  and  j  we' — she  paused  a  moment,  and  the  rosy  color  in 
dragged  her  toward  him.  .  j  her  checks  deepened  by  just  one  shade;  it  was  so 

•Are  j-Du  mad?'  he  cried,  with  an  oath.  'Are  jswcet  to  use  that  simple  monosyllable  'we'  when 
you  mad  or  drunk?  Who  gave  you  leave  to  let)Kdward  Arundel  was  the  other  half  of  the  pro- 
that  woman  go?     Who — ?'  /  noun — 'to  think  that  we  shall  be  in  Paris  to-mor- 

He  couldn't  finish   the   sentence.     His  throat  (row!' 
grew  dry,  and  he  gasped  for  breatJh,  while  all  the  >     'Driving  in  the  Bois,'  exclaimed  Miss  Arundel, 
blood  in  his  body  seemed  to  rush  into  his  swollen  /  'dining  at  the  Maison  Dor6e,  or  the  Cafe  de  Paris, 
forehead.  '  /Don't  dine  at  Meurice's,  Linda;  it's  dreadfully 

'You  sent  Mrs.  Marchmont  to  fetch  my  patient  /slow  dining  at  one's  hotel.  And  you'll  be  a  yo\mg 
away,  Sir,'  exclaimed  the  woman,  looking  fright- i;  married  woman,  and  can  do  any  thing,  you  know, 
e^ed.     'You  did,  didn't  you?    She  said  so!'  Mf  I  were  a  young  married  woman  I'd  ask  my 

'She  is  a  liar;  and  you  are  a  fool  or  a  cheat.  \  husband  to  take  me  to  the  Mabillc,  just  for  half 
She  paid  you,  1  dare  say  !  Can't  you  speak  wo- Jan  hour,  with  nn  old  bonnet  and  a  thick  veil.  I 
man  !  Has  the  person  l  left  in  your  care,  whorn'/knew  a  trirl  whose  first  cousin  married  a  cornet 
J-ou  were  paid,  and  paid  well,  to  take  care  of— J  in  the  Guards,  and  they  went  to  the  Mabille  one 
have  you  let  her  go?     Answer  me  that. '  Jnight.      Conie,    Belinda,   if    you   mean  to   have 

'I  have.  Sir,'  the  woman  faltered— she  was  bip  <;  your  back  hair  done  at  all,  you'd  better  sit  down 
and  brawny,  but  there  was   that  in  Paul  March-  ^  at  once  and  let  me  commence  operations. ' 
mont's  face  that   frightened   her,  notwithstand- ^      Miss   Arundel  had  stipulated   that,  upon    this 
ing — 'seeing  as  it  was  your  orders.'  '  particular  morning,  she  was  to  dress  her  friend's 

'That  witl  do,'  cried  Paul  Marchmont,  holding;  hair;  and  she  turned  up  the  frilled  sleeves  of  her 
up  his  hand,  and  looking  at  the  woman  with  a  /  white  dressing-gown,  and  set  to  work  in  the  ortho- 
ghastly  smile;  'that  will  do.  You  have  ruined  ?dox  manner,  spreading  a  net-work  of  shining  au- 
mt;  do  you  hear?  You  have  undone  a  work  thai  1;  burn  tresses  about  Miss  Lawford's  shoulders,  prior 
has  cost  me — .  Oh,  my  God!  why  do  I  waste /to  the  weaving:  of  elaborate  plaits  that  were  to 
my  breath  in  talking  to  sucFl  a  creature  as  Ihis?^  make  a  crown  for  the  fair  young  bride.  Letitia's 
All  my  plots,  my  "difliculties,  my  struggles  and  ^  longue  went  as  fast  as  her  fingers;  but  Belinda 
victories,    my    long    sleepless    nights,    my    bad  >  was  very  silent. 

dreams— has  it  allcome  to  this?    Ruin,  unutter-  i     She  was  thinking  of  the  bounteous  Providence 
able  ruin,  brought  upon  me  by  a  mad  woman  !'     ^  'hat  had  given  her  the  man  she  loved  for  her  hus- 

He  sat  down  in  the  chair  by  the  window,  and  ^  'and.  She  had  been  on  her  knees  in  the  early 
leaned  upon  the  table',  scattering  the  Indian  chess-  ^  morning,  long  before  Letitia's  awakening,  breath- 
men  with  his  elbow.  He  did  not  weep.  Thai  ^nc:  out  innocent  thanksgiving  for  the  happiness 
relief— terrible  relief  though  it  is  for  a  man's^  hat  overflowed 'her. fresh  young  heart.  A  wo- 
brealt  was  denied  him.  He  sat  there  with  hi;-^  nan  had  need  to  be  country-bred,  and  to  havo 
face  covered,  moaning  aloud.  That  heIples^  )  leen  reared  in  the  narrow  circle  of  a  happy 
moan  was  scarcely  like  the  complaint  of  a  marff ;!  home,  to  feel  as  Belinda  Lawford  felt.  Such 
it  was  rather  like  tlie  hopeless,  dreary  utterance  ,'.  'ove  as  hers  is  only  given  to  bright  and  innocent 
•,'s  anguish;  it  sounded  like  the  miser- ;; -ipirits,  untarnished  even  by  the  knowledge  of  sin. 


of  a  brute's  angu 

able  ho^yling  of  a  beaten  cur. 


^  Down  stairs  Edward  Arundel  was  making  a 
;  wretched  pretense  of  breakfasting  lete-drtele  with 
',  his  future  father-in-law. 

^     The  Major  had  held  his  peace  as  to  the  vn- 

^looked-for  visitant  of  the  past  night.     He  had 

;!2;iven  particular  orders  that  no  stranger  should 

jbe  admitted  to  the  houFe,  and  that  was  all.     But, 

,  ;;  being  of  a  naturally  frank,  not  to  say  loquacioui 

The  sun  shone  upon   Belinda  Lawford  s  wed- ,;  disposition,  the  weight. of  this  secret  was  a  very 

ding-day.     The  birds  were  singing  in  the  garden  ^  terrible  burden  to   the  honest   half-pay  soldier. 

under  her  window  as  the  opened  the  lattice  and  /  He  ate  his  dry  toast  uneasily,  looking  at  the  door 

looked  out.  *^Tho  word  lattice  is  not  a  poetical  /.eycry  now  and  then,ia  the  perpetual  expectation 

19 


CHAPTER  XXXLX. 


BELIKDA  S    WEDDING-DAT. 


146 


JOHN  MARCHMONT'S  LEGACY. 


of  beholding  that  barrier  burst  open  by  mad 
Olivia  Marchmont. 

The  breakfast  was  not  a  very  cheerful  meal 
therefore.  I  don't  suppose  any  ante-nuptia* 
breakfast  ever  is  very  jovial.  There  was  the 
state  banqufet — the  wedding  breakfast — to  be 
eaten  by-and-by;  and  Mrs.  Lawford,  attended 
by  all  the  females  of  the  establishment,  was  en- 
gaged in  putting  the  last  touches  to  the  groups 
of  fruit  and  confectionery,  the  pyramid  of  flowers 
and  that  crowning  glory,  the  wedding-cake. 

•Kemember,  the  still  Hock  and  Madeira  are 
to  go  round  first,  and  then  the  sparkling;  and  tell 
Gogram  to  be  particular  about  the  corks  Martha, ' 
Mrs.  Lawford  said  to  her  confidential  maid,  as 
she  gave  a  nervous  last  look^at  the  table.  '1  was 
at  a  breadfast  once  where  a  Champagne-cork  hii 
the  bridegroomion  the  bridge  of  his  nose  at  the 
very  moment  he  rose  to  return  thanks;  and  being 
a  nervous  man,  poor  fellow! — in  point  of  fact,ht 
was  a  curate,  and  the  bride  was  the  rector's 
daughter,  with  two  hundred  a  year  of  her  own- 
it  quite  overcame  him,  and  he  didn't  get  over  it 
all  Ihiough  the  breakfast.  -And  now  i  must  rui. 
and  put  on  my  bonnet.' 

There  was  nothing  but  putting  on  bonnets  and 
pinning  lace  shawls,  and  wild  outcries  for  hair- 
pins, and  interchanging  of  iittle  feminine  services, 
upon  the  bedroom  floor  for  the  next  half-hour. 

Major  Lawford  walked  up  and  down  the  hall, 
putting  on  his  white  gloves,  which  were  too  hrge 
tor  him — elderly  men's  Avhite  gloves  always  art 
too  large  for  then^ — and  watching  the  doorof  tht 
citadel.  Olivia  must  pass  over  a  father's  body, 
the  old  soldier  thought,  before  she  should  anno} 
Belinda  on  her  bridal  morning. 

By-and-by  the  carriages  came  round  to  the  door. 
The  girl  l^rijlemaids  came  crowding  down  tht 
stairs,  hustling  each  other's  crisped  garments 
and  disputing  a  little  in  a  sisterly  fashion;  thei 
l!,etitia  Arundel,  with  nine  rustling  flounces  oi 
while  silk  ebbing  and  flowing  and  surging  about 
her,  with  a  pleased  simper  upon  her  face;  and 
•then  followed  Mrs.  Arundel, stately  in  silver-j;raj 
_ moire,  and  .Mrs.  La.wford,  in  violet  silk— untii 
the  hall  was  a  show  of  bonnets  and  bouquets  and 
muslm. 

And   last  of  all,  Belinda   Lawford,  robed  ir: 

cloud-like  garments  of  spotless  lace,  with  bridal 

flowers  trembling  round  her  hair,  came  slowly 

.  down  the  broad  old-fashioned  stair-cjjse,  to  see 

her  lover  loitering  in  the  hall  below. 

He  looked  very  grave;  but  he  greeted  his  bride 
with  a  tender  smile.  He  loved  her,  but  he  could 
notforget.  Even  upon  this  his  wedding-day  tht 
haunting  shadow  of  the  past  was  with  him:  not 
to  be  shaken  off". 

He  did  not  wait  till  Belinda  reached  the  bottom 
of  the  staircase.  There  was  a  sort  of  ceremonia  1 
law  to  be  observed,  and  he  was  not  to  speak  to 
Miss  Lawford  upon'this  special  morning  until  he 
met  her  in  the  vestry  at  Hillingsworth  Church; 
so  Letitia  and.Mrs.  Arundel  hustled  the  young 
man  into  one  of  the  carriages,  while  Major  Law- 
fored  ran  to  receive  his  daughter  at  the  foot  ol 
the  stairs. 

The  Arundel  carriage  drove  off  about  five 
minutes  before  the  vehicle  that  was  to  convey 
Major  Lawford,  Belinda,  and  as  many  of  tlit 
girl  bridemaids  as  could  be  squeezed  into  it  with- 
out detriment  to  lace  and  muslin.  The  resi 
went  with  Mrs.  Lawford  in  the  third  and  last 
carriage.  Hillingsworth  Church  was  about  three- 
quarters  of  a  mile  from  the  Grange. j  Jt  was^a 


5  pretty,  irregular  old  place,  lying  in  a  little  nook 
J  inder  the  shadow  of  a  great  yew-tree.     Behind^ 
^  be  square  Norman  tower  there  was  a  row  or 
^  'Oplars,  black  agamst  the  blue  sumtner  sky;  and 

<  'etl^en  the  low  gate  of  the  church-yard  and  the 
)  ;ray,  moss-grown  porch 'there  was  an  avenue  of 
i^  cood  old  elms.  The  rooks  were  calling  to  each 
/  >ther  in  the  topmost  branches  of  the  trees  as 
^.Wajor  Lawford 's  carriage  drew  up  at  the  church- 
^  yard  gate. 

^^     Belinda  was  a  great  falrorite  among  the  poor  of 

<  Hillingsworth  parish,  and  the  place  had  put  on  a 
^  ^ala-day  aspect  in  honor  of  her  wedding.  Gar 
J  lands  of  honey-suckle  and  wild  c4ematis  were 
^twined  about  the  stout  oaken  gate-posts.  The 
^ichool-children  were  gathered  in  clusters  in  the 

>  church-yard,  with  their  pinafores  full  of  fresh 
i  flowers  from  shadowy  lanes  and  from  prim  cot- 
5  tage  gardens — bright,  homely  blossoms,  with  the 
'  aiorning  dew  still  ypon  them. 

iThe  rector  and  his  curate  were  standing  in  the 
porch  waiting  for  the  coming  of  the  bride;  and 
there  were  groups  of  well-dressed  people  dotted 
ibout  here  and  there  in  the  drowsy  sheltered 
pews  near  the  altar.  There  were  humbler  spec- 
i  ators  clustered  under  the  low  ceiling  of  the  gal- 

>  lery — tradesmen's  wives  and  daughters,  radiant 
'/  v^ith  new  ribbons,  and  whispering  to  one  another 
1  n  delighted  anticipation  of  the  show.  "  '  ' 
I  Every  body  round  about  the  Grange,  loved 
^pretty,  genial  Belinda  Lawford,  and  there  was 

universal  rejoicing  because  of  her  happiness. 

The  wedding  party  came  out  of  the  vestry  pre- 
sently in  appointed  order;  the  bride  with  her  head 
Irooping,  and  her  face  hidden  by  her  veil;  the 
oridemaids'  garnients  making  a  fluttering  noise  as 
they  came,  up  the  aisle,  like  the  sound  of  a  sum- 
•ner  breeze  faintly  stirring  a  "field  of  corn. 

Then  the  grave  voice  of  the  rector  began  the 
■lervice  with  the  brief  preliminary  exordium;  and 

jl  then,  in  a  tone  that  grew  more  solemn  with  the 

I  ncreasing  solemnity  of  the  words,  he  went  on  to 

}  hat  awful  charge  which  is  addressed  especially 

i  to  the  bridegroom  and  the  bride  : 

}  '1  require  and  charge  you  both,  as  ye  will 
inswer  at  the  dreadful  Day  of  Judgment,  when 
he  secrets  of  all  hearts  shall  be  disclosed,  •thart 
if  either  of  you  know  any  impediment  why*  ye 

i  nay  not  be  lawfully'joined  together  in  matri- 

'/  nony,  ye  do  now  confess  it.     For  be  ye  well  as- 

'lured — ' 

i  The  rector  read  no  further;  for  a  woman's 
voice  from  out  the  dusky  shadows  at  the  further 
nid  of  the  church  cried  'Stop!' 

There  was  a  sudden  silence;  people  stared  at 
rjach  other  with  pale,  scared  faces,  and  then 
urned  in  the  direction  whence  the  voice  had 
some.  The  bride  lifted  her  head  for  the  first 
lime  since  leaving  the  vestry,  and  looked  round 

[  dHbut  her,  ashy  pale  and  trembling. 

'Oh   Edward,   Edward!'  ^e   cried,   'what   is 

it?' 

The  rector  waited,  with  hi»hand  still  upon  the 
open  book.  He  waited,  looking  toward  the  other 
end  of  the  chancel.  He  had  no  need  to  wait 
long':  a  woman,  with  a  black  veil  thrown  back 
from  a  white,  haggard  face,  and  with  dusty  gar- 
ments dragging  upon  the  church-floor,  came 
ilowly  up  the  aisle. 

Her  two  hands  were  clasped  upon 'her  breast, 
and  her  breath  came  in  gasps,  as  if  she  had  been 
running. 

'Olivia!'  cried  Edward  Arundel,  'what,  in 
Heaven's  name — ' 


JOHN  MARCHMONT'S  LEGACY. 


14' 


But  Major  Lawford  stepped  forward,  and  spoke 
'to  the  rector.  \  < 

'Pray  let  her  be  got  out  of  the  way,'  he  said, 
io  a  low  voice.  4  was  warned  of  this.  1  was 
quite  prepared  for  soaje  such  disturbance.'  He 
sank  his  voice  to  a  whisper.  'Slit  is  mad ."  he 
said,  close  in  the  rector's  ear. 

The  whisper  was  like  wliji^pering  in  general — 
more  distinctly  audible  than  the  rest  of  the 
speech.  Olivia  Marchniont  heard  it. 
•  'Mad  until  to-day,'  she  cried;  'but  not  mad  to- 
day. Oh,  Edward  Arundel!  a  hideous  wrong  has 
been  done  by  me  and  through  me.  Your  wife — 
your  wife — ' 

•  «My  wife  !  what  of  her  ?    She—' 

'She  is  alive  !' gasped  Olivia; 'an  hour's  walk 
frolh  here.  1  came  on  toot.  1  was  tired,  and  1 
came  slowly.  1  thoi%ht  that  1  should  be  in  time 
to  stop  you  before  you  got  to  the  church;  but  1  am 
very  weak.     1  ran  the  last  part  of  the  waj — '  ' 

She  dropped  her  hands  upon  the  altar-rails, 
and  seemed  as  if  she  would  have  fallen.  The 
rector  put  his  arm  about  her  to  support  her,  and 
slic  went  on  :       . 

'i  thought  I  should  hav«  spared  her  this,' she 
said,  pointing  to  Belinda;  'but  1  can't  help  it. 
/S/ic  must  bear  her  misery  as  well  as  others.  It 
can't  be  worse  lor  her  than  it  has  been  for  others. 
Sbc  must  bear — ' 

'My  wife!'  said  Edward  Arundel; 'Mary,  my 
poor  sorrowful  darling — alive:' 

Belinda  turned  away,  and  buried  h|r  face  upon 
her  mother's  shoulder.  She  could  have  borne 
any  thing  better  than  this. 

*  •  riis  heart — that  suprcne  treasure,  for  wliich 
she  had  rendered  up  thaiiks  to  her  God — had 
never  been  hgrs,  after  all.  A  word,  a  breath,  and 
she  was  forgotten;  his  thoughts  went  back  to  that 
other  one.  There  was  unutterable  joy ,  ^here  was 
unspeakable  tenderness  in  his  tone,  as  he  spoke 
of  Mary  Marchmont,  thougti  site  stood  by  his  side, 
in  all  her  foolish  bridal  tinery,  with  her  heart 
newly  broken. 

'Oh,  mother,' she  cried,.' take*  me  away!  lake 
me  away,  before  1  die  I' 

Olivia  ilung  herself  upon  her  knees  by  the 
altar-rails,  where  the  pure  young  bride  was  to 
have  knelt  by  her  lover's  side;  tlus  wretched  sin- 
ner cast  herself  down,  sunk  far  below  all  common 
thougtits  in  the  black  depth  of  her  despair. 

'On,  my  sin,  my  sin  !'  siie  cried,  with  clasped 
hands  lifted  up  above  her  head.  'i(Vill  God  ever 
forgive  my  sin  ?  will  God  ever  have  pity  upon 
me.'  Can  He  pity, 'can  He  forgive,  such  guilt  as 
mine  ?  Even  tins  work  of  lo-day  is  no  atonement 
to  be  reckoned  agdinst  my  wickedness.  1  was 
jealous  of  her;  I  Was  jealous!'-  Earthly  passion 
was  still  predoinmaiil  m  thismiserable  breast. 

She  rose  suddenly,  as  if  this  outburst  had'never 
been,  and  laid  hei^and  upon  Edward  Arundel's 
arm. 

'Come L' she  said; 'come!' 

'To  her — to  Mary — my  wife:' 

They  had  taken  liclinda  away  by  this  time;  but 
Major  Lawford  stood  looking  on.  He  tried  t» 
draw  Edward  aside;  but  Olivia's  hand  upon  the 
young  man's  arm  held  him  like  a  vice. 

'Sne  is  mad,'  whispered  the  Major.  'Mr. 
Marchmont  came  to  me  last  night,  and  warned 
me  of  all  this.  He  told  me  to  ne  prepared  for 
any  thing;  she  has  all  sorts  of  delusioris.  Get 
her  away,  if  you  can.  While  1  go  anff  explain 
matters  to  Belinda.  Edward,  if  you  have  a  spark 
ot  manly  feeimg,  get  this  wouiaa  away.' 


But  Olivia  held  the  bridegroom's  arm  with  a 
tightening  grasp.  * 

•Come  !' she  said; 'come  !  Are  you  turned  to 
stone,  Edward  Arundel?  Is  your  love  wurih  no 
more  than  this?  I  tell  you,  jour  wile,  Mary 
Marchmont,  is  alive.  Let  those  who  doubt  me 
come  atid  see  for  themselves.' 

The  eager  spectators,  standing  up  in  the  pews 
or  crowding  in  the  narrow  aisle,  were  only  too 
read-y  to  respond  to  this  invitation. 

Olivia  led  her  cousin  out  into  the  church-yard; 
she  led  him  to  the  gate  where  the  carriages  were 
waiting.  The  crowd  flocked  after  them;  and  the 
people  outside  began  to  cheer  as  they  came  out. 
Tliat  cheer  was  the  signal  for  which  the  school- 
children had  waited;  and  they  ^et  to  work  scat- 
tering flowers  upon  the  narrow  pathway,  before 
they  looked  up  to  see  who  was 'coming  to  tread 
upon  the  rosebuds  and  jasmine,  the  woudbine  and 
seringa.  Bat  they'drew  back,  scared  and  won- 
dering, as  Olivia  came  along  the  pathway,  sweep- 
ing those  tender  blossoms  alter  her  with  her  trail- 
ing black  garments,  and  leading  the  pale  bride- 
groom by  his  arm. 

She  leil  him  to  the  door  of  the  carriage  beside 
which  Major  Lawford 's  gray-hafred  groom  was 
waiting,  with  a  big  white-satin  favor  pinned  upon 
his  breast,  and  a  bunch  of  roses  in  his  button- 
hole. There  were  favors  in  the  horses' ears,  and 
favors  upon  the  breasts  of  the  Hillingsvvorth 
trades-people  who  supplied  bread  and  butcher'.s 
meat  and  grocery  to  the  famiy  at  the  Grange. 
The  bell-ringers  up  in  the  church-tower  saw  the 
crowd  iiock  out  of  the  porch,  and  thought  the 
marriage  ceremony  was  o\'er.  The  jangling 
bells  pealed  out  upon  the  hot  summer  air  as  Ed- 
ward stood  by  the  church-yard  gate,  with  Olivia 
Marchmont  by  Lis  side. 

'Lend  me  your  carriage,'  he  said  to  Major 
Lawford,  'and  come  with  me.  1  must  see  the  end 
of  this.  It  may  be  all  a  delusion;  but  1  must  see 
the  end  of  it.  If  there  is  any  truth  in  instinct,  I 
believe  that  I  shall  see  my  wife — alive.' 

He  got  into  the  carriage  without  further  cere- 
mony, and  Olivia  and  Major"  Lawford  followed 
hjm. 

'Where  is  my  wife:'  the  young  man  asked, let 
ting  down  the  front  window  as  he  spoke. 

'At  Kemberling,  at  Hester  Jubsou's.' 

'Drive  to  Kemberling,'  Edward  said  to  the 
coachman — 'to  Kemberling  High  Street,  as  fast 
as  you  can  go.' 

The  man  drove  away  from  the  church-yard 
gate.  The  humbler  spectators,  who  were  re-, 
strained  by  no  niceties  of  social  etiquette,  hur- 
ried after  the  vehicle,  raising  white  clouds  of 
dust  upon  the  high-road  with  their  eager  feet. 
The  higher  classes  lingered  about  the  church- 
yard, talkingto  each  other  and  wondering. 

Very  few  people  stopped  to  think  of  Belinda 
Lawford.  'Let  the  stricken  deer  go  weep:'  A 
stricken  deer  is  a  very  uninteresting  object  whea 
there  are  hounds  in  full  chase  hard  by,  and  an- 
other deer  to  be  hunted. 

'Since  When  has  my  wife  been  at  Kemberling:' 
Edward  Arundel  asbed  Olivia,  as  the  carriage 
drove  along  the  high-road  between  the  two 
villages. 

'Since  daybreak  this  morning.' 

•Where  was  she  before  then  .'' 

'At  Stony-Stnngford  Farm.' 

'And  before  then.'' 

'Id  the  pavilion  orer  the  boat-house  at  March* 
moot.' 


143 


.JOHN  MARCHMONT'S  LEGACY. 


'My  God !    And — '  •    /  her  beloved  visitor,  and  Edward  carried  his  yoUfig 

The  young  man  did  not  finfsli  his  sentence.  He'  wife  up  to  the  clean,  airy  chamber.      He  went 

put  his  head  out  of  the  window  looking  toward  '<  back  to  the  parlor  to  fetch  the  child.     He  carried 

Kemberling,  and  straining  his  eyes  to  catch  the  ':,  the  fair-haired  little  one  up  stairs  in  his  own  arms; 

earliest  sight  of  the  straggling  village  street.  J  but  1  regret  to  say  that  the  infant  showed  an  in- 
•Fasterl'  he  cried  every  now  and  then  to  the  clination  to  whimper  in  his  newly-found  father's 

coachman; 'faster !'  j  embrace.     Edward  Arundel  went  back  to  the  sit- 

in  little  more  than  half  an  hour  from  the  time  '  ting  room  presentlf,  and  sat  down,  waiting  till 

at  which  it  had  left  the  church-yard  gate  the  car-^  Hester  should  bring  him  fresh  tidings  of  his  wife. 

riage  stopped  before  the  little  carpenter's-shop.  I  Olivia  Marchmont  stood  by  the  window,  with  her 

me?'  she  said,  pres- 
1  words  that  are  vile  enough 
me?     Is  that  why  you 
t^ker  with  the  homely  trade  of  carpenter  and /are  silent  f' 

joiner.  •  '  '     'No,  Olivia,' answered  the  young  man,  calmly. 

Olivia  Marchmont  got  out  of  the  carriage  be-^'I  ameilent,  because  I  have  nothing  to  say  t/J  you. 
fore  either  of  tbe  two  men  could  alight  to  assist '^  Why  you  have  acted  as  you  have  acted — why  you 
her.  Power  was  the  supreme  attribute  of  this' have  chosen  to  be  the  tool  §f  a  black-hearted  vil- 
wonian's  mind.  Her  purpose  -never  faltered  ;i 'lain — is  an  unfathomable  mystery  to  me.  Ithank 
from  the  moment  she  had  left  Marchmont  Towers  -  God  that  'your  conscience  was  aroused  this  day, 
until  now  she  had  known  neither  rest  of  body  nor '  and  that  you  have  at  least  hindered  the  misery  of 
wavering  of  intention.  ;  an  innocent  girl.  But  why  you  have  kept  my  wife 

'Come,' she  said  to  Edward  Arundel,  looking- hidden  from  me — why  you  have  been  the  accom- 
back  as  sheCstood  upon  the  threshold  of  Mr.  Job-|  plice  of  Paul  Marchtnont's  crime — is  more  than  1 
son's  door;  'and  you  too,'  she  added,  turning  to '.can  even  attempt  to  guess.' 
Major  Lawtord — 'follow  us,  and  see  whether  1;     'Not  yet?'  said  Olivia,  looking  at  him  with  a 
am  MAD.'  ;  strange  smil6.  'Even  yet  I  am  a  mystery  to  you  ?' 

She   passed  through   the   shop,  and   into  that:      'You  are,  indeed,  Olivia.' 

prim,  smart  parlor  in  which  Edward  Arundel'had  |;     She  turned  away  from  him  with  a  laugh. 

lamented  his  lost  wife.  /      'Then  I  had  better  remain  so  till  the  end,'  she 

The  latticed  windows  were  wide  open,  and  the  ;  said,  'looling  ouf  into  the  garden.     But  after  a 

warm  summer  sunshine  filled  the  room.  •;  moment's  silence  she  turned  her  head  once  more 

A  girl,  with  loose  traces  of  hazel-brown  hair^  toward  the  young  man.     |I  will  speak,'  she  said; 

falling  about  her  face,  was  sitting  on  the  floor,-;  *I  v,'i/Z  speak,  Edward  Arundel.  I  hope  and  believe 

lookhig  down  at  a  beautiful  fair-haired  nursling-^  that  I  have  not  long  to  live,  and  that  all  my  shame 

of  a  twelvemonth  old.  (and  misery,- my  obstinate  wickedness,  my  guilty 

The  girl  was  John  Marchmont's  daughter;  the  ;■  passion,  will  come  to  an  end,  like  a  long  feverish 

child    was    Edward    Arundel's   son.     It  was  his:  dream.     O  God,  have  mercy  on  my  waking,  and 

childish  ory  that  the  young  man  had  heard  upon    make  it  brighter  than  this  dreadful  sleep  !  I  loved 

that  October  night  in  the  pavilion  bj  the  water,    jjou,  Edward  Arundel.      You  dnn'f,  know  what 

'Mary  Arundel,'  said  Olivia,  in  a  hard  voice,  Jthat  word  "Jove"  means,'do  you  ?    You  think  you 

'I  give  you  back  your  husband  !'  ';love  that  childish  girl  yonder,  don't  you  ?  but  I 

'J'he  yourig  mutlu  r  got  up  from  the  ground  and  Jean  tell  you  that  yo«  don't  know  what  love  is. — 

fell  into,  her  husband's  arms.     Edward  carried  :>  J  know  what  it  is.     I  have  loved.     For  ten  years 

her  to  a  sofa  and  laid  her  down,  white  and  sense-)  — for  ten  long,  dreary,  desolate,  miserable-years, 

less,  and  then  knelt  down  beside  her,  crying  over  '  fifty-two  weeks  in  every  year,  fifty-two  Sundays, 

her,  and  sobbing;  out  inarticulate  thanksgiving  to  ,'  with  long  idle,  hours  betw'leen  the  two  chutch  ser- 

the  God  who  had  given  his  lost  wife  back  to  him.  ;  vices -I  have  loved  you,  Edward.      bhall   I  tell 

'Poor,  sweet 'amb!'  murmured  Hester  Jobson;/  vou  what  it  is  to  love?     It  is  to  sufTer,  to  hate.' — 

'she's  as  weak  as  a  baby;  and  she's  gone  through  :■  Yes,  to  hate  even  thfe  object  of  your  love,  when 

so  much  a'ready  this  morning.'  ijthat  love  is<J>opeless;  to  hate  him  for  the  very  at- 

It  was  some  time  before  Edward  Arundel  raised  ;  tributes  that  have  made  you  love-  him;  to  grudge 

his  head  from  the  pillv..w  ujjon   which  his  wife's  ;  the  gifts  and  graces  that  have  made  him  dear.    It 

pale  face  lay ,  half-hidden  amidst  the  tangled  hair. ;  is  to  hate  every  creature  upon  whom  his  eyes  look 

But  when   he   did    look   up,  he  turned  to  Major  j  with  greater  tenderness  than  they  look  on  you;  to 

Lawford  and  stretched  out  his  hand.  /  watch  one  face  until  its  familiar  lines  become  a 

'Have  pity  upon  me.'  he  said.     'I  have  been  j'perpetual  torment  to  you,  and  you  can  not  sleep 

the  dupe  of  a  villain.     Tell  your  poor  child  how'  because  of  its  eternal  presence  staring  at  you  in 

mulh  I  esteem  her,  how  much  [  regret  that — that  ■  all  your  dreams.    Love  !  H#v  many  people  upon 

we  should  have  loved  each  other  as  we  have. ;  this  p;reat  earth  know  the  real  meaning  of  that 

The  instinct  of  my  heart  would  have  kept  me  true  ;  hideous  word.  I  have  learned  it  ustil  my  soul 
to  the  past;  but  it  was  impossible  to  know  your/  loathes  the  lesson.  They  will  tell  you  that  I  am 
daughter  and  not  love  her.  The  villain  who  hasj  mad,  Edward,  and  they  will  tell  you  something 
brought  this  sorrow  upon  us  shall  pay  dearly  for  /  near  the  truth;  but  not  quite  the  truth.  My  mad- 
his  infamy.  Go  back  to  your  daughter;  tell  her/  ness  has  been  my  love.  From  long  ago,  Edward, 
every  thing.  Tell  her  what  you  have  seen  here.  '  when  you  were  little  more  than  a  boy — you  re- 
I  know  her  heart,  and  I  know  that  she  will  open  I  member,  don't  you,  the  long  days  at  the  Rectory? 
her  arms  to  this  poor  ill-used  child.'  /  i  remember  every  word  you  ever  spoke  tome, 

The  Major  went  away.    Hester  Jobson  bustled  /  every  sentiment  you  ever  expressed,  every  look 
about  bringing  restoratives  and  pillows,  stopping '  of  your  changing  face — you  were  the  first  bright 
every  now  and  then  in  an  outburst  ef  aflection  by  ?  thing  ihat  came  across  my  barren  life;  and  I  loved 
the  slippery  horse-hair  couch  on  which  Mary  lay.  j  you.    I  married  John  Marchmont — why,  do  you 
Mrt(  Jobson  had  prepared  her  best  bedroom  for  \  think  ? — because  I  wanted  to  make  a  barrier  be- 


ions  MARCHMONT'S  LEGACY. 


149 


twecn  you  and  me.      I  wanted  to  make  my  love  f 
for  you  impossible  by  making  it  a  sin.     I  did  not  j 
think  it  was  in  my  nature  to  sin.     But  since  then 
—oh,  I  hope  I  have  been  mad  since  then;  I  hope 
that  God  may  forgive  my  sins  because  I  have  been 
mad  !' 

Her  thoughts  wandered  away  to  that  awful 
question  which  had  been  so  lately  revived  in  her 
mind — Could  she  be  forgiven  ?  Was  it  within  the 
compass  of  Heavenly  mercy  to  forgive  such  a  sin 
as  hers .' 


CHAPTER  XL. 
hary'sstory. 

WiiEV  the  «un  sank  upon  the  summer's  day 
that  was  to  have  been  the  day  of  Belinda's  bridal, 
Edward  Arundel  thought  that  it  was  still  early  in 
the  morning.  He  wondered  at  the  rosy  light  all 
over  the  western  sby,  and  that  great  ball  of  molten 
gold  dropping  down  below  the  horizon.  He  was 
fain  to  look  at  his  watch,  in  order  to  convince  , 
himself  that  the  low  light  was  really  the  familiar 
sun,  and  not  some  uni^tural  appearance  in  the  ; 
heavens.  ) 

And  yet,  although  he  wondered  at  the  closing  ' 
of  the  day,  with  a  strange  inconsistency  his  mind 
could  scarcely  grapple   with   the  idea  that  only 
last  night  he  had  sat  by  Belinda  Lawford's  side,  , 
her  betrothed  husband,  and  had  pondei%d,  Heaven  ; 
Oiiiy  knows  with  what  sorrowful  regret,  Upon  the 
unknown  grave  in  which  his  dead  wife  lay. 

'I  only  knew  it  this  morning,' he  thought;  'I 
)nly  knew  this  morning  that  my  young  wile  still 
/ives;  and  that  Hiave  a  son.' 

He  was  sitting  by  the  open  window  in  Hester 
•Tobson's  best  bedroom.  He  was  sitting  in  an  old- 
fashioned  easy-chair,  placed  between  the  head  of 
the  bed  and  the  open  window — a  pure  cottage  , 
window,  with  diamond  panes  of  tliin  greenish 
glass,  and  a  brOad  painted  ledge,  with  a  great  jus 
of  homely  garden  flowers  standing  on  it.  The 
young  man  was  sittinsj  by  the  side  of  the  bed  upon 
which  his  newly-found  wife  and  son  lay  asleep; 
the  child's  head  nestled  on  his  mother's  breast, 
one  flushed  cheek  peeping  out  of  a  tangled  confu- 
sion of  hazel-brown  and  babyish  flaxen  hair. 

The  white  dimity  curtai'  s  overshadowed  the 
loving  sl'-epers.  The  pretty  fluffy  knottid  fringe 
— neat  Hester's  handiwork — made  fantastical  tra- 
cery upon  the  sunlit  c<iunterpane.  -  Mary  slept 
with  one  arm  folded  round  her  child,  and  with  her 
face  turned  to  her  husband  She  had  fallen 
asleep,  with  her  hand  clasped  in  his,  after  a  suc- 
cession of  fainting-fits  that  had  left  her  terribly 
prostrate. 

EdAard  Arundel  watched  that  tender  picture 
with  a  smile  of  inctKoble  affection. 

•1  can  understand  now  why  Roman  Catholics 
worship  the  Virgin  Mary,'  he  thought.  'lean 
comprehend  the  inspiration  that  guided  Raphael's 
hand  when  he  painted  the  Madonna  de  la  Chaise. 
In  all  the  world  there  is  no  picture  so  beautiful ! 
From  all  the  universe  he  could  have  chosen  no 
subject  more  sublime.  Oh,  my  darling  wife,  given 
bacU  to  me  out  of  the  grave,  restored  to  me,  and 
not  alone  restored  !  My  little  son  !  my  baby  son  ! 
whose  feeble  voice  I  heard  that  dark  October 
night!  To  think  that  I  was  so  wretched  a  dupe 
To  think  that  my  dull  ears  could  hear  that  sound,  '■ 
and  no  iailinct  rite  up  in  my  heart  to  reveal  the 


presence  of  my  child  !  I  was  so  near  them,  not 
once,  but  several  times-^so  near,  and  I  never 
knew — I  never  guessed  !' 

'Oh,  my  darling,  my  darling!'  the  ypung  hus- 
band thought,  as  he  looked  at  his  wife's  wan  face, 
upon  which  the  evidence  of  all  that  past  agony 
was  only  too  painfully  visible — 'how  bitterly  we 
two  have  sufl'ered  !  But  how  much  more  terrible 
must  have  been  your  suffering  than  mine,  my  poor 
gentle  darling,  my  broken  lily  !' 

In  his  rapture  at  finding  the  wife  he  had  mourned 
as  dead,  the  young  man  had  for  a  time  almost  for- 
gotten the  villainous  plotter  who  had  kept  her  hid- 
den from  him.  But  now,  as  he  sat  quietly  by  the 
bed  upon  which  Mary  and  her  baby  lay,  he  had 
leisure  to  think  of  Paul  Marchmont. 

What  was  he  to  do  with  that  man  ?  \Vhat  ven- 
geance could  he  wreak  upon  the  head  of  that 
wretch  who,  for  nearly  ^wo  years  had  condemned 
an  innocent  girl  to  cruel  suffering  and  shame?  To 
shame;  for  Edward  knew  now  that  one  Of  the 
most  bitter  tortures  which  Paul  Marohmont  had 
inflicted  upon  his  cousin  had  been  his  pretended 
disbelief  in  her  marriage.  . 

'What  can  I  do  to  him  r'  the  young  man  asked 
himself.  'What  ca.n  I  do  to  him.'  There  is  tio 
personal  chastisement  worse  than  t))at  which  he 
has  endured  already  at  i^iy  hands.  The  scoun- 
drel !  the  heartless  villain  !  the  false,  cold-blooded 
cur!  What  can  I  do  to  him  .'  I  can  only  repeat 
that  shameful  degradation,  and  I  ict/i  repeat  it. 
This  time  he  shall  howl  under  the  lash  like  some 
beaten  hound.  This  time  I  will  drag  him  through 
the  village  street,  and  let  every  Wle  gossip  in 
Kemberling  see  how  a  scoundrel  writlies  under  an 
honest  man's  whip.     I  will — ' 

Edward  Arundel's  wife  woke  while  he  was 
thinking  what  chastisement  he  should  inflict  upon 
hor  deadly  foe;  and  the  baby  opened  his  round 
innocent  blue  eyes  in  the  next  moment,  and  sat 
up,  staring  at  his  new  parent. 

Mr.  Arundel  took  the  child  in  his  arms,  and 
held  him  very  tenderly,  though  perhaps  rather 
awkwardly.  The  baby's  round  eyes  opened  wi- 
der at  slight  of  the  gold«n  absurdities  dangling 
at  his  father's  watch-chain,  and  the  little  pudgy 
hands  began  to  play  with  the  big  man's  locket  and 
seals. 

'He  comes  to  me,  you  see,  Mary!'  Edward 
said,  with  naive  wonder.. 

'Isn't  he  like  you,  Edward  .''  she  whispered.  'It 
was  only  for  his  sake  that  I  bore  my  life  all 
through  that  miserable  time;  and  I  don't  think  I 
could  have  lived  even  for  him,  if  he  hadn't  been 
so  like  you.  I  used  to  look  at  his  face  sometimes 
for  hours  and  hours  together,  crying  over  him  and 
thinking  of  you.  I  don't  think  I  ever  cried  ex- 
cept when  he  was  in  my  arms.  Then  something 
seemed  to  soften  my  heart,  and  the  fears  came  to 
my  eyes.  I  was  very,  very,  very  ill,  for  a  long 
time  before  ray  baby  was  born;  and  I  didn't  know 
how  the  time  went,  or  where  1  was.  1  used  to 
fancy  sometimes  T  was  back  in  Oakley  Street,  and 
that  papa  was  alive  again,  and  that  we  were 
quite  bappy  together,  exfcpt  for  some  heavy  ham- 
mer that  was  always  beating,  beating,  beating 
upon  both  our  heads,  and  the  dreadful  sound  of 
the  river  rushing  down  the  street  under  our  win- 
dows. I  heard  Mr.  Weston  tell  hie  wife  that  it 
was  a  miracle  I  lived  through  that  time.' 

Hester  Jobson  came  in  presently  with  a  tea- 
tray,  that  made  itself  heard,  by  a  jingling  of  lea- 
spoon  and  rattling  of  cupt  and  saucers,  all  the  way 
up  the  narrow  staircase. 


150 


JOHN  MARCHMONT'S  LEGACr. 


The  friendly  carpenter's  wife  had  produced  her 
best  china  and  ber  silver  tea-pot — an  heir-loom 
inherited  from  a  wealthy  maiden  aunt  of  her 
husband's.  She  had  been  busy  all  the  afternoon, 
preparing  that  elegant  little  collation  of  cake  and 
fruit  which  accompanied  the  tea-tray;  and  she 
spread  the  lavender-scented  table-cloth,  and  ar- 
ranged the  cups  and  saucers,  the  plates  and 
dishes,  with  mingled  pride  and  delight. 

But  she  had  to  endure  a  terrible  disappoint- 
ment by-and-by  ;  for  neither  of  her  guests  was 
in  a  condition  to  do  justice  to  her.  hospitality. 
Mary  got  up  and  sat  m  the  roomy  easy-chair, 
propped  up  with  pillows.  Her  pensive  eyes  kept 
a  loving  watch  upon  the  face  of  her  husband, 
turned  toward  her  own,  and  slightly  crimsoned 
by  that  rosy  flush  fading  out  in  the  western  sky. 
She  sat  up  and  sipped  a  cup  of  tea;  and  in  that 
lovely  summer  twilight,  with  the  scent  of  the 
flowers  blowing  in  through  the  open  window, 
and  a  stupid  moth  doing  his  best  to  beat  out  his 
brains  against  one  of  the  diamond  panes  in  the 
lattice,  the  tortured  heart,  for  the  first  time  since 
ihc  ruthless  close  of  that  brief  honey-moon,  felt 
the  heavenly  delight  of  repose. 

'Oh,  Edward!'  murmured  the  young  wife, 
^  how  strange  it  seems  to  be  happy !' 

He  was  at  ber  feet,  half-kneeling,  half-sitting 
on  a  hassock  of  Hester's  handiwork,  with  both 
his  wife's  hands  clasped  in  his,  and  his  head  lean- 
ing upon  the  arm  of  her  chair.  Hester  Jobson 
had  carried  off  the  baby,  and  these  two  were 
i|uite  alone,  all  in  all  to  each  other,  with  a  cruel 
gap  of  twt>  years  to  be  bridged  over  by  sorrow- 
J'ul  memories,  by  tender  words  of  cc^solation. 
They  were  alone,  and  they  could  talk  quite  freely 
now,  without  fear  of  interruption;  for  although 
in  purity  and  beauty  an  infant  is  first  cousin  to 
the  angels,  and  although  1  most  heartily  concur  in 
all  that  Mr.  Bennett  and  Mr.  Buchanan  can  say 
or  sing  about  the  species,  still  it  must  be  owned 
that  a  baby  is  rather  a  hindrance  to  conversation, 
and  that  a  man's  eloquence  does  not  iiow  quite  so 
smoothly  when  he  has  to  stop  every  now  and  then 
to  rescue  his  infant  son  from  the  imminent  peril 
of  strangulation,  caused  by  a  futile  attempt  at 
swallowing  one  of  his  own  fists. 

Mary  and  Edward  were  alone;  they  were  to- 
gether once  more,  as  they  had  been  by  the  trout- 
stream  in  the  Winchester  meadows.  A  curtain 
had  fallen  upon  all  the  wreck  and  ruin  of  the 
past,  and  they  could  hear  the  soft,  mysterious 
music  that  was  to  be  the  prelude  of  a  new  act  in 
life's  drama. 

'1  shall  try  to  forget  all  that  time,'  Mary  said, 
presently;  'I  shall  try  to  forget  it,  Edward.  I 
think  the  very  memory  of  it  would  kill  me,  if  it 
was  to  come  back  perpetually  in  the  midst  of  my 
joy, 'as  it  does  now,  even  now,  when  I  am  so 
happy — so  happy  that  I  dare  not  speak  of  my 
happiness.' 

She  stopped,  and  her  face  drooped  upon  her 
husband's  clustering  hair. 

'You  are  crying,  Mary!'- 

'Yes,  dear.  There  is  something  painfal  in 
happiness  when  it  comes  after  such  suffering.' 

The  young  man  lifted  his  head,  and  looked  in 
his  wife'?  face;  How  deathly  pale  it  was,  even 
in  that  shadowy  twilight;  how*  worn  and  hag- 
gard and  wasted  since  it  had  smiled  at  him  in  his 
brief  honey-moon  !  Yes,  joy  is  painful  when  it 
comes  after  a  long  continuance  of  suffering;  it  is 
painful  because  we  have  become  skeptical  by 
I'easoa  of  the  endurance  of  such  anguish.    We 


'have  lost  the  power  to  believe  in  happiness.  It 
; comes,  the  bright  stranger;  but  we  shrink  ap- 
:  palled  from  its  beauty,  lest,  after  all,  it  should  be 
nothing  but  a  phantom. 

Heaven  knows  how  anxiously  Edward  Arundel 
looked  at  his  wife's  altered  face.  Her  eyes  shone 
^upon  him  with  the  holy  light  of  love.  J^he  smiled 
•at  him  with  a  tender,  reassuring  smile;  but  it 
seemed  to  him  that  there  was  something  al- 
most supernal  in  the  brightness  of  that  white 
wasted  face;  something  that  reminded  him  of  the 
countenance  of  a  mgirtyr  who  has  ceased  to  sutler 
the  anguish  of  death  in  a  foretaste  of  the  joys  of 
heaven. 

'Mary,'  he  said,  presently,  'tell  me  every 
cruelty  that  Paul  Marchmont  or  his  tools  inflicted 
upon  you;  tell  me  every  thing,  and  I  will  never 
speak  of  our  miserable  separation  again.  I  will 
only  punish  the  cause  of  it,'  he  added,  in  an  un- 
dertone. 'Tell  me,  dear.  It  will  be  painful  for 
you  to  speak  of  it;  but  it  will  be  only  once. 
There  are  some  things  I  must  know.  Remember, 
darling,  that  you  are  in  my  arms  now,  and  that 
nothing  but  death  can.  ever  again  part  us.' 

The  young  man  had  his  arms  round  his  wife. 
He  felt,  rather  than  heard,  a  low,  plaintive  sigh 
as  he  spoke  those  last  words. 

'Nothing  but  death,  Edward;  nothiugbut  death,' 

Mary  said,  in  a  solemn  whisper.     'Death  would 

not  come  to  me  when  I  was  very  miserable,.     I 

used  to  pray  that  I  might  die,  and  the  baby  too; 

^  for  I  could  not  have  borne  to  leave  him  behind. 

<  I  thought  that  we  might  both  be  buried  with  you, 

s  Edward.    I  have  dreamed  sometimes  that  I  was 

lying  by  your  side  in  a  tomb,  and  1  have  stretched 

out  my  dead  hand  to  clasp  yours.     I  used  to  beg 

;  and  entreat  them  to  let  me  be  buried  with  you 

)when  Idled;  for  I  believed  that  you  were  dead, 

$  Edward.    I  believed  it  most  firmly.     I   had  not 

),even  one  lingering  hope  that  you  were  alive.     If 

Ji  had   felt  such  a  hope,  no  power  upon  earth 

y  would  have  kept  me  prisoner.' 

i     'The  wretches!'  muttered  Edward  between  his 

'set  teeth;  'the  dastardly  wretches!  the  fouliiarsl' 

'/     'Don't  Edward;   don't,   darling.     There   is   a 

^pain  in  my  heart  when   I   hear  you  speak  like- 

J  that.     I  know  how  wicked  they  have  been;  how 

J^cruel— how  cruel.     I  look  back  at  all  my  suffer- 

^ing  as  if  it  were  some  one  else  who  suffered;  for, 

■now  that  you  are  with  me,  I  can  not  believe  that 

'^miserable,  lonely,  despairing  creature  was  really 

me' — the  same  creature  whose   head   now  rests 

upon  your  shoulder;  whose  breath  is  mixed  with 

yours.     Hook  back  and  see  all  my  past  misery, 

and  I  can  not  forgive  them,  Edward;  I  am  very 

wicked,  for  I  can  not  forgive  my  cousin  Paul  and 

his  sister — yet.     But  1  don't  want  you  to  speak 

pf  them;  I   only   want   you   to  love  me;  1  only 

■want  you  to  smile  at  me,  and  tell  me  again  and 

^  again  and  again  that  nothing  can  part  us  now — 

;  but  death.' 

[     She  paused  for  a  few  moments,  exhausted  by 
;hjfving  spoken  so  long.     Her  head  lay  upon  her' 
;  husband's  shoulder,  and  she  clung  a  little  closer 
;  to  him,  with  a  slight  shiver. 
V     'What  is  the  matter,  darling. ?' 
;     'I  feel  as  if  it  couldn't  be  real.' 
>     'What,  dear?' 

\  'The  present — all  this  joy.  Oh,  Edward,  is 
;  it  real?  Is  it — is  it?  Or  am  I  only  dreaming? 
/  Shall  I  wake  presently  and  feel  the  cold  air  blow- 
^  ing  in  at  the  window,  and  see  the  moonlight  on 
?the  wainscot  at  Stony  Stringford?  Is  it  all 
^real?' 


JOHN  MARCHMONt'S  LEGACY,. 


151 


'It  is.'my  precious  one.  As  'real  as  the  mercy  JfPaul  said.  He  always  seemed  very,  very  kmd  to 
of  God,  who  will  give  you  compensation  for  all  t  me;  always  ?poke  softly;  always  loiime  that  he 
you  have  suffered;  as  repl  as  God's  vengeance,  J  pitied  me,  and  was  sorry  for  me.  But  though  my 
which  will  fall  most  heavily  upon  your  perse- 1  s-lep-mother  looked  sternly  at  me,  and  spoke,  as 
cutors.  And  now,  darling,  tell  me — tell  me  all.  !  she  always  used  to  speak,  in  a  harsh,  cold  voice, 
1  must  know  the  story  of  these  two  miserable  i  I  sometimes  think  she  might  have  given  way  at 
years  during  which  I  have  mourned  for  my  lost  I  last  and  let  me  come  to  you,  but  for  him— but 
love.'  J  for  my  cousin  Paul.     He  could  look  at  me  with  a 

Mr.  Arundel  forgot  to  mention  that  during  !  smile  upon  his  face  when  I  was  almost  mad  with 
those  two  miserable  years  he  had  engaged  him- ;  my  misery;  and  he  never  wavered;  believer  hes- 


self  to  become  the  husband  of  another  woman 
But  perhaps,  even  when  he  is  best  and  truest,  a 
man  is  always  just  a  shade  behind  a  woman  in 
the  matter  of  constancy. 

'When  you  left  me  in  Hampshire,' Edward,  I 
was  very,  very  miserable,'  Mary  began,  in  a  low 
voice;  'but  I  knew  that  it  was  selfish  and  wicked 


itated. 

'So  they  took  me  back  to  the  Towers.  I  let 
them  take  me;  for  I  scarcely  felt  my  sorrow  any 
longer.  I  only  felt  tired;  oh,  so  dreadfully  tired; 
and  1  wanted  to  lie  down  upon  the  ground  in  some 
quiet  place,  where  no  one  could  come  near  me. 
1  thought  that  I  was  dying.     I  believe  I  was  very 


of  me  to  think  only  of  myself.  I  tried  to  think  of  ill  when  we  got  back  'to  the  Towers.  My  step- 
your  poor  father,  who  was  ill  and  suffering;  and  i  mother  and  Barbara  Simmons  watched  by  my 
I  prayed  for  him,  and  hoped  that  he  would  re- J  bedside  day  after  day,  night  after  night.  Some- 
cover,  and  that  you  would  come  back  to  me  very  !  times  1  knew  them;  sometimes  1  had  all  sorts  of 
soon.  The  people  at  the  inn'  were  very  kind  to  fancies.  And  x)ftcn — ah,  how  often — darling!— 
me.  I  sat  at  the  window  from  morning  till  night  |  I  thought  that  you  were  with  me.  My  cousin 
upon  the  day  after  you  left  me,  and  upon  the  day  <  t^aul  came  every  day  and  stood  by  my  bedside.  1 
after  that;  for  I  was  so  foolish  as  to  fancy,  every  <  can't  tell  you  how  hateful  it  was  to  me  to  have 
time  I  helrd  the/  sound  of  horses'  hoofs  or  car-  <  nim  there.     He  used  to  come  into  the  room  as  si- 


riage-wheels  upon  the  high-road,  that  you  were 
coming  back  to  me,  and  that  all  my  grief  was 
over.  I  sat  at  the  window  and  watched  the  road 
till  I  knew  the  shape  of  every  tree  and  housetop, 
every  ragged  branch  of  the  hawthorn-bushes  in 
the  hedge.  At  last — it  was  the  third  day  aftei 
you  went  away — 1  heard  carriage-wheels,  thai 
slackened  as  they  came  to  the  inn.  A  fly  stopped 
at  the  door,  and  oh,  Edward,  1  did  not  wait  to 
see  who  was  in  it;  I  never  imagined  the  possi- 
bility of  its  bringing  any  body  but  you.  I  ran 
down  stairs,  with  my  heart  beating  so  that  I  could 
hardly   breathe,    and    I   scarcely   felt   the   stain 


lently  as  if  he  had  been  walking  upon  fuow;  but 
however  noiselessly  he  came,  however  fast  asleep 
I  was  when  he  entered  the  room,  1  always  knew 
ihat  he  was  there,  standing  by  my  bedside,  smil- 
ing at  me.  1  always  woke  with  a  shuddering 
lorror  thrilling  through  my  veins,  as  if  a  rat  had 
I'un  across  my  face. 

'By-and-by,  when  the  delirium  was  quite  gone, 
[  felt  ashamed  of  myself  for  this.  It  seemed  so 
wicked  to  feel  this  unreasonable  antipathy  to  my 
lear  father's  cousin;  but  he  had  brought  me  Jjad 
news  of  you,  Edward,  and  it  was  scarcely  strange 
ihat  I  should  hate  him.     One  day  he  sat  down  by 


inder  my  feet.     But  when  I  got'  to  the  door — oh  \  in j^  bedside,  wheifl  was  getting  better,  and  wa.s 

ink  of  it;  s  -trong  enough  to  talk.  There  was  no  one  besides 


y  love,  my  love ! — I  can  not  bear  to  th 
I  can  not  endure  the  recollection  of  it — 

She  stopped,  gasping  for  breath,  and  clinging 
to  hp.r  husband;  and  then-,  with  an  eflbrt,  went  on 
again: 

'ies,  I  will  tell  you,  dear;  I  must  tell  you. 
My  cousin  Paul  and  my  step-mother  were  stanflinp 
in  the  little  hall  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs.  1  think 
1  fainted  in  my  step-mother's  arms;  and  when  m) 
consciousness  came  back,  I  was  in  our  sitting 
room — the  pretty  rustic  room,  Ed  ward,  in  whicl. 
you  and  I  had  been  so  kappy  together. 

'I  must  not  stop  to  lell  you  every  thing.  Ii 
would  take  me  so  long  to  speak  of  all  that  hap 
pened  in  that  miseraljjc  time.  I  knew  that  some 
thing  must  be  wrong,  from  my  cousin  Paul'!- 
manper;  but  neither  he  nor  my  step  mother  woulc. 
tell  me  what  it  was.  I  asked  them  if  you  wen 
dead:  but  they  said,  '\o,  you  were  not  dead." 
Still  I  could  see  that  something  dreadful  had  hap- 
pened. But  by-and-by,  by  accident,  I  saw  youi 
name  in  a  newspaper  that  was  lying  on  the  tabh 
with  Paul's  hat  and  gloves.     I  saw  the  dcscriptioi 

of  an  accident  on  the  railway  by  which  I  knew  lood  was  little  more  than  natural, 
you  had- traveled.  My  heart  sank  at  once,  and  I  'And  then  he  spoke  against  you,  Edward 
think  I  guessed  all  that  had  happened.  1  rcac  igainsT  you.  He  talked  of  my  childish  ignorance, 
your  name  among  those  of  the  people  who  har  |  ny  confiding  love,  and  your  villainy.  Oh,  E<l- 
heen  dangerously  hurt.  Paul  shook  his  head 'ward,  he  said  such  shameful  things — such  shant*-- 
when  1  asked  him  if  there  was  any  hope.  (ul,  horrible  things!     You  had  plotted  to  become 

'They  brought  me  back  here.     1  scarcely  know    master  of  my  fortune;  tt>  gc-t  mc  into  your  power, 
how  I  came,  how   I  endured   all   that  misery.^  1    because  of  my  money;  and  jou  had  not  married 
implored  them  to  let  me  come  to  you  again  and    di*.     You  had  not  married  me;  he  pergisted^in 
again,  on  my  knees  at  their  feet.     But  neither  of ;  saying  that, 
them  would   listen  to  me.)  fit  was  impossible,}     'I  was  delirious  again  after  this— almost  mad, 


)Ursclves  in  the  room,  except  my  step-mother, 
ind  she  was  standing  at  the  window,  with  her 
lead  turned  away  from  us,  looking  out.  My 
cousin  Paul  sat  down  by  the  bedside,  and  began 
o  talk  to  me  in  that  gentle,  compassionate  way 
;hat  used  to  torture  me  and  irritate  me  in  spite  of 
myself. 

•He  asked  me  what  had  happened- to  me  after 
.uy  leaving  the  Towers  on  the  day  after  the  bjill, 

'I  told  him  every'thing,  Edward-^ttbout  your 
coming  to  me  in  Oakley  Street — about  our  mar- 
iage.  But  oh!  my  darling,  my  husband,  he 
vvouldn't  believe  me — he  wouldn't  beliovc.  No- 
tiing  that  1  could  say  would  make  him  believe 
ue.  Though  1  swore  to  him  again  and  again — 
,)y  my  dead  father  in  heaven,  as  1  hoped  for 
ihe  mercy  of  my  God — that  1  had  spoken  the 
truth,  and  the  truth  only,  he  wouldn't  believe  me 
—he  wouldn't  believe.  He  shook  his  head,  and 
-aid  he  scarcely  wondered  1  should  try  to  deceive 
lim;  that  it  was  a  very  sad  story,  a  very  inisera- 

c  and  shameful  story,  and  my  attempted  false- 


IXi 


JOHN  MARCHMONT'S  LEGACY. 


,  I  think.  All  through  the  delirium  I  kept  telling 
my  cousin  Paui  of  our  marriage.  Though  he 
was  very  seldom  in  the  room,  I  constanfiy  thought 
that  he  was  there,  and  told  him  the  same  thing — 
the  same  thing — till  my  brain  was  on  fire.  I  don'i 
know  how  long  it  lasted.  I  know  that,  once  in 
the  middle  of  the  night,  I  saw  my  step-mother 
lying  upon  the  ground,  sobbing  aloud  and  crying 
out  about  her  wickedness;  crying'  out  that  God 
would  never  forgive  her  sin. 

♦I  got  better  at  last,  and  then  I  went  down 
stairs;  and  I  used  to  sit  sometimes  in  poor  papa'c 
study.  The  blind  was  always  down,  and  none  of 
the  servants,  except  Barbara  Simmons,  ever  came 
into  the  room.  IVly  cousin  Paul  did  not  live  at 
the  Towers;  but  he  came  there  every  day,  and 
often  staid  there  all  day.  He  seemed  the  master 
of  the  house.  My  step-mother  obeyed  him  in 
every  thing,  and  consulted  him  about  every  thing. 

'Sometimes  Mrs.  Weston  came.  She  was  like 
■  her  brother.  She  always  smiled  at  me  with  a 
grave,  compassionate  smile,  just  like  his;  and  she 
always  seemed  to  pity  me.  Hut  she  wouldn't  be- 
lieve in  my  marriage.  She  spoke  cruelly  about 
you,  Edward — cruelly,  but  in  soft  words,  that 
seemed  only  spoken  out  of  compassion  for  me. 
No  one  would  believe  in  my  marriage. 

•No  stranger  was  allowed  to  see  me.  I  was 
never  suffered  to  go  out.  They  treated  me  as  if 
I  was  some  shameful  creature,  who  must  be  hid- 
den away  from  the  sight  of  the  world. 

'One  day  I  entreated  my  cousin  Paul  to  go  to 
London  and  see  Mrs.  Pimpernel.  She  would  be 
able  to  tell  him  of  our  marriage.  I  had  forgot- 
ten the  name  of  the  clergyman  who  married  us, 
and  the  church  at  which  we  were  married.  And 
I  could  not  tell  Paul  those;  but  I  gave  him  Mrs. 
Pimpernel's  address.  And  I  wrote  to  her,  beg- 
ging her  to  tell  my  cousin  all  about  my  marriage; 
and  I  gave  him  the  note  unseale(4. 

'He  went  to  London  about  a  week  afterwart?; 
and  when  he  came  back  he  brought  me  my  note. 
He  had  been  to  Oakley  Street,  he  said;  but  Mrs. 
Pimpernel  had  left  the  neighborhood,  and  no  one 
knew  where  she  was  gone.' 

'A  lie!  a  villainous  lie!*  muttered  Edward 
Arundel.  'Oh,  the  scoundrel!  the  tinfernal 
scoundrel!' 

'No  words  would  ever  tell  the  misery  of  4hat 
time;  the  bitter  anguish;  the  unendurable  sus- 
pense. When  I  asked  them  about  you  they  would 
•  tell  me  nothing.  Sometimes  I  thought  that  you 
had  forgotten  me;  that  you  had  only  married  me 
out  of  pity  for  my  loneliness;  and  that  you  were 
glad  to  be  freed  from  me.  Oh,  forgive  me,  Ed- 
ward, for  that  wicked  thought;  but  1  was  so  very 
miserable,  so  utterly  desolate.  At  other  times  1 
fancied  that  you  were  very  ill,  helpless,  and  un- 
able to  come  to  me.  I  dared  not  think  tha^  you 
were  dead.  1  put  away  that  thought  from  me 
with  all  my  might;  but  it  haunted  me  day  and 
night..  It  was  with  me  always  like  a  ghost.  1 
tried  to  shut  it  away  from  my  sight;  but  I  knew 
that  it  was  there.    ■ 

'The  days  were  all  alike — long,  dreary,  and 
desolate;  so  I  scarcely  knew  how  the  time  went. 
My  step-mother  brought  me  religious  books,  and 
told  me  to  read  them;  but  they  were  hard,  diffi- 
cult books,  and  1  couldn't  find  one  word  of  com- 
fort in  them. 

'I  don't  know  what  day  it  was,  except  that  it 
was  autumn,  and  the  dead  leaves  were  blowing 
about  in  the  quadrangle,  when  my  step-mother 
sent  for  me  one  afternoon  io  my  room,  where  I 


was  sitting,  not  reading,  not  even  thinking — only 
sitting  with  my  head  upon  my  hands,  staring  stu- 
pidly out  at  the  drifting  leaves  and  the  gray,  cold 
sky.  My  step-mother  was  in  papa's  study,  and  1 
was  to  go  to  her  there.  I  went,  and  found  her 
standing"there,  with  a  letter  crumpled  up  in  her 
clenched  hand,  and  a  slip  of  newspaper  lying  on 
the  table  before  her.  She  was  as  white  as  death, 
and  she  was  trembling  violently  from  head  to  foot. 

'  "See,"  she  said,  pointing  to  the  paper;  "your 
lover  is  dead.  But  ^tor  you  he  would  have  re- 
ceived the  letter  that  tojd  him  of  his  father's  ill- 
ness upon  an  earlier  day;  he  would  have  gone  to 
Devonshire  by  a  different  train.  It  was  by  your 
doing  that  he  traveled  when  he  did.  If  this  is 
true,  and  he  is  dead,  his  blood  be  upon  your 
head;  his  blood  be  upon  your  head  !" 

'I  think  her  cruel  words  were  almost  exactly 
those.  I  did  not  hope  for  a  minute  that  those 
horrible  lines  in  the  newspaper  were  false.  I 
thought  tl/ey  must  be  true,  and  I  was  mad,  Ed- 
ward— I  was  mad;  for  utter  despair  came  to  me 
with  the  knowledge  of  your  death.  I  went  to 
my  own  room;  and  put  on  my  bonnet  and  shawl; 
and  then  1  went  out  of  the  house,  down  into  that 
dreary  wood,  and  along  the  narrow  pathway  by 
the  river-side.  I  wanted  to  drown  myself:  hut 
the  sight  of  the  black  water  filled  me  with  a 
shuddering  horror.  I  was  frightened,  Edward; 
and  I  went  on  by  the  river.  Scarcely  knowing 
where  I  was  going,  until  it  was  quite  dark;  and  I 
was  tired,  and  sat  down  upon  the  damp  ground 
by  the  brink  of  the  river,  all  among  the  broad 
green  flags  and  the  wet  rushes.  I  sat  th«re  foi 
hours,  and  I  saw  the  stars  shining  feebly  in  a 
dark  sky  1  think  1  was  delirious;  for  sometimes 
I  knew  that  I  wa?  there  by  the  jvaiei-side,  and 
then  the  next  minute  I  thought  that  I  was  in  my 
bedroom  at  the  Towers;  sometimes  1  fancied  that 
1  was  with  you  in  the  meadows  near  Winchester, 
and  the  sun  was  shining,  and  you  were  sitting  by 
my  side,  and  I  could  see  your  float  dancing  up  and 
down  in  the  sunlit  water.  At  last,  after  I  had 
been  there  a  very,  very  long  time,  two  people 
came  with  a  lantern,  a  man  and  woman;  and  I 
heard  a  startled  voice  say,  "Here  she  is;  here, 
lying  on  the  ground  !"  And  then  another  voice, 
a  woman's  voice,  very  low  and  frightened,  said, 
"Alive!"  And  then  two  people  lifted  me  up; 
the  man  carried  mevn  his  arms,  and  the  woman 
took  the  lantern.  I  couldn't  speak  to  them;  but 
I  knew  that  they  were  my  cousin  Paul  and  jhis 
sister  Mrs.  Weston.  I  rertiember  being  carried 
some  distance  in  Paul's  arms;  and  then  I  think  1 
must  have  fainted  away;  for  I  can  recollect  no- 
thing more  until  I  woke  up  one  day  and  found 
myself  Ijing  in  a  bed  in  the  pavilion  over  the 
boat-house,  with  Mr,  Weston  watching  by  my 
bedside. 

'I  don't  know  h'ow  the  time  passed;  1  only 
know  that  it  seemed  endless.  I  think  my  illness 
was  rheumatic  fever,  jiaught  by  lying  on  the 
damp  ground  nearly  all  that  night  when  I  ran 
away  from  the  Towers.  A  long  time  went  by  : 
there  was  frost  and  snow.  .1  saw  the  river  once 
out  of  the  window  when  I  was  lifted  out  of  bed 
for  an  hour  or  two,  and  it  was  frozen;  and  once 
at  midnight  I  hedrd  the  Kemberling  Church  bells 
ringing  in'the  New  Year.  I  was  very  ill,  but  I 
had  no  doctot;  and  all  that  time  I  saw  no  one  but 
my  cousin  Paul,  and  Lavinia  Weston,  and  a  ser- 
vant called  Betsy,  a  rough  country  girl,  wholook 
care  of  me  when  my  cousins  were  away/  They 
were  kind  to  me,  and  took  great  care  of  me.' 


JOHN  MARCHMONT'3  LEGACY. 


15S 


'•YoudiJnot  lee  Olivia,  then,  all  this  timer' < who  raised  the  widow's  son,  had  heaj-d  my 
Edward  asked,  eagerly.  ^  jprayer,  and  had  raised  you  up  from  the  dead;  for 

'No;  I  did  not  see  my  ftep-mother  till  some  ^  the  baby's  eyes  were  like  yours,  and  I  used  to 
time  after  the  New  Year  began.  She  came  in  ;!  think  sometimes  that  your  soulwas  looking  out 
suddenly  one  evening,  when  Mrs.  Weston  was  i  of  them  and  comforting  me. 
with  me,  and  at  first  she  seemed  frightened  at;  « Do  you  remember  that  poor  foolish  German 
seeing  me.  She  spoke  to  me  kindly  afterward,  >' woman  who  believed  that  the  spirit  of  a  dead 
but  in  St  strange,  terror-stricken  voice;  and  she  iking  came  to  her  in  the  shape  of  a  raven  ?  She 
laid  her  head  down  upon  the  counterpane  of  the;' was  not  a  good  woman,  1  know,  dear;  but  she 
bed,  and  sobbed  aloud;  and  then  Paul  took  her  i  must  have  love<l  the  king  very  truly,  or  she  never 
away,  and  spoke  to' her  cruelly,  very  cruelly — ^  could  have  believed  any  thing  so  foolish.  1  don't 
taunting  her  with  her  love  for  you.  1  never  un- ;;  believe  in  people's  love  when  they  love  "wisely," 
derstood  till  then  why  she  hated  me  :  but  I  pitied  j,' Edward;  the  truest  love  is  that  which  loves  "too 
her  after  that;  yes,  Edward,  miserable  as  1  was,  <  v/ell." 

1  pitied  her,  because  you  had  never  loved  her.  '/  'From  the  time  of  my  baby's  birth  every  thing 
In  all  my  wretchedness  I  was  happier  than  her; ;!  was  changed.  1  was  more  miserable,  perhaps, 
for  you  had  loved  me,  Edward— you  had  loved  ;;  because  tnat  dull,  dead  apathy  cleared  away, 
me!'  ;!  and  my  memory  came  back,  and   1  thought  of 

Mary  lifted  her  face  to  her  husband's  lips,  and  ;! you,  dear,  and  cried  over  my  little  angel's  face 
tliose  dear  lips  were  pressed  tenderly  upon  her  ;!  as  he  slept.  Hut  1  wasn't  alone  any  longer.  The 
pale  forehead.  <  world    seemed    narrowed   into   the   little  circle 

'Oh  my  love,  my  love!'  the  young  man  mur- •;  round  my  darling's  cradle.  1  don't  think  he  is 
mured;  'my  poor  suffering  angel  I  Can  God  ever  <  like  other  babies,  Edward.  I  think  he  has  known 
foPgive  these  people  for  their  <yuclty  to  you?  i of  my  sorrow  from  the"  very  first, and  has  tried  in 
But,  my  darling,  why  did  3'ou  make  no  effort  to  ',  his  mute  way  to  comfort  me.  The  Gou  who 
escape?'  "  :  worked  so  many  miracles,  all  separate  tokens  of 

'I  was  too  ill  to  move;  I  believed  that  I  was  ^  His  lovd  and  tenderness  and  pity  for  the  sorrows 
dying.'  \  of  mankind,  could  easily  make  my  baby  different 

'But  afterward,  darling,  when  you  were  better, 'from  other  children,  ior  a  wretched  mother's 
stronger,  did  you  make  no  effort  then  to  escape  J  consolation, 
from  your  persecutors?'  j;  ,  'In  the  autumn  after  my  darling's  birth,  Paul 

Mary  shook  her  head  mournfully.  -;  and  his  sister  came  for  me  one  night,  and  took 

'Why  should  1  try  to  escape  from  them?'  she*:  me  away  from  the  pavilion  by  the  water  la  a  de- 
said.  'What  was  there  for  me  Ijeyond  that  place?' jisertcd  farm-houip,  where  there  was  a  woman  to 
It  was  as  well  for  me  to  be  there  as  any  where  >  wait  upon  me  and  take  care  of  me.  She  was  not 
else.  I  thought  you  Avere  dead,  Edward;  Isunkind  to  me,  but  she  wae  rather  neglectful  of 
thought  you  were  dead,  and  life  held  nothing  i;  me.  I  did  not  mind  that,  for  I  wanted  nothing 
more  for  me.  1  could  do  nothing  but  wait  till  He  ;:  except  to  be  alone  with  my  precious  boy— your 
who  raised  the  widow's  son  should  have  pity  :! son,  Edward;  your  son.  The  woman  let  me  walk, 
upon  me,  and  take  me  to  the  heaven  where  I'in  the  garden  sometimes.  It  was 'a  neglected 
thought  you  and  papa  had  gone  before  mc.  i;  garden,  but  there  were  bright  flowers  growing 
didn't  want  to  go  away  from  those  dreary  rooms  i  wild,  and  when  the  spriiig  came  again  my  pet 
over  the  boat-house.  What  did  it  matter  to  mc  ',  used  to  lie  on  the  grass  and  play  with  the  butter- 
whether  I  was  there  or  at  Marchmont  Towers?^  cups  and  daisies  that  I  threw  into  his  lap;  and  I 
What  did  it  matter?  t  thought  you  were  dead,  5  think  we  were  both  of  us  happier  and  belter  than 
and  that  the  world  was  finished  for  me.  I  sat ;  we  had  been  in  those  two  close  rooms  over  the 
day  after  dav  by  the  window;  not  looking  out;  for  ^<|joat-house. 

there  was  a  Venetian  blind  that  my  cousin  Paul,  '1  have  told  you  all  now,  Edward— all  except 
had  nailed  down  to  the  window-sill,  and  1  could!  what  happened  this  morning,  when  my  step- 
only  »ee  glimpses  of  the  water  through  the  long,  i  mother  and  Hester  Jobson  came  into  my  room  in 
narrow  openings  between  the  laihs.  1  uied  to  sit  \  the  early  daybreak,  and  told  me  that  1  had  been 
there  listening  to  the  moaningof  the  wind  among  ^deceived,  and  that  you  were  alive.  My  step- 
the  trees,  or  the  sounds  of  horses'  feet  upon  the  ;;  mother  threw  herself  upon  her  knees  at  my  feet, 
towing-path,  or  the  rain  dripping  into  the-  river 'and  asked  me  to  forgive  her,  for  she  was  a  mis- 
upon  wet  days.  1  think  that  even  in  my  deepest  <;erable  sinner,  she  said,  who  had  been  abandoned 
misery  God  was  good  to  me,  for  my  mind  sank'.by  God;  and  I  forgave  her,  Edward,  and  kissed 
into  a  dull  apathy,  and  I  seemed  lo  lose  even  the  i  her;  and  you  must  forgive  her,  too,  dear,  for  I 
capacity.of  suffering.  ■;  know  that  siie  has  been  very,  very  wretched.  And 

'One  day— one  day  in  March,  when  the  wind  ,'shc  tool*  the  baby  in  her  arms,  and  kissed  him— 
was  howling,  and  the  smoke  blew  down  the  fiar-   oh,  so  passionately  !— and  cried  over  him.     And 
row  chimney  and  filled  the  room— Mrs.  WestoiV  then  they  brought  me  here  in  Mr.  Joljson's  cart, 
brought  her'luyiband,  and  he  talked  to  me  a  little,    for  Mr.  Jobson  was  with  them,  and   Hester  held 
and    then   talked    to   his  wife   in  whispers.     He    me  in  her  arms  all  the  time.     And  then,  darling, 
seemed  terribly  frightened,  and   he  trembled  all ,  then,  after  a  long  time,  you  came  to  me.' 
the  time,  and   kept  saying,   "Poor   thing;   poor!      Edward  put  his  arms  round  his  wife,  and  kissed 
young  woman!"  but  his  wife  was  cross  "to  him, » her  once  more.     'We  will    never  speak  of  this 
and    wouldn't   let   him   stop    long   in  the  room.  !  again,  darling,' he  said.     'I  know  all  now;  I  un- 
After  that  Mr.   Weston  came  very  often,  always  J  derstand  it  all.     I  will  never  again  distress  you 
wiih.Lavinia,  who  seemed  cleverer  than  he  was,  (  by  speaking  of  your  cruel  wrongs.' 
even*  as  a  doctor;  for  she  dictated  lo  him,  and  ;      'And  you  will  forgive  Olivia,  dear?' 
ordered   him  about   in   every  thing.     Then,  by-j      'Yes,  my  pet,  1  willforgive— Olivia.' 
»nd-by,  when  the  birds  were  singing  and  the  warm  ;     He  said  no  more,  for  there  was  a  footstep  on 
sunshine  came  into  the  room,  my  baby  was  born,  \  the  stair,  and  a  glipamcr  of  light  shone  through 
Edvard— my  babr  wu  bore  I  thought  that  Ood,- the  creTicei  of  the  door.    Hester  Jobsou  ca«t 
90  .  *" 


lU 


JOHN  MARCHMONT'S  LEGACY. 


into  the  room  with  a  pair  of  lighted  was-candlps  Nmer's  day,  and  the  friendly  twilight  is  slow  to 

in  white  crockerj  candlesticks.     But  Hester  was  ]  come  in  the  early  dajs  of  July,  however  a  maa 

not  alone;  close  behind   her  came   a  lady  in  a  '<  may    loathe   the    sunshine.      Paul    Marchmont 

rustling  silk  gown,   a  tall   matronly  lady,  who  <  stopped  at  the  deserted  farm-hou«e,  wandering  in 

cried  out  :  •  and  out  of  the  empty  rooms,  strolling  listlessly 

'Where  is  she,  Edward?    Where  is  ^her    Let  !  about  the  neglected  garden,  or  coming  to  at  dead 

me  see  this  poor  ill-us%d  child  !'  J  stop  sometimes,  and  standing  stock-still  for  ten 

It  was  Mrs.  Arundel,  who  had  come  to  Kem-  \  minutes  at  a  time,  staring  at  the  wall  before  him, 

berJing  to  see  her  hewly-iound  daughter-in-law.    <  and  counting  the  slimy  traces  of  the  snails  upon 

'Oh,  my  dear  mother,' cried  the  young  man,  J  the  branches  of  a   plum-tree,  or   the   flies   in  a 

'how  good   of  you   to  come!     Now,  Mary,  you  <  spider's  vscb.     Paul   Marchmont  was   afraid  to 

need  never  again  know  what  it  is  to  want  a  pro-  i  leave  that  lonely  farm-house,     lie  was  afraid  as 

tector,  a   tender   womanly   protector,    who  will 'jet.     He   scarcely  knew  what  he  feared,  for  a 

aheller  you  from  every  harm.'  <  kind  of  stupor  had   succeeded  the 'violent  emo- 

Mary  got  up  and  went  to   Mrs.  Arundel,  who    tions  of  the  past  few  hours;  and  the  time  slipped 

opened  her  arms  to  receive  her  son's  young  wife,  j  by  him,  and  his  brain  grew  bewildered  when  he 

But  before  she  folded  Mary  to  her  friendly  breast    tried  to  realize  his  position. 

she  took  the  girl's  two  hands  in  hera,  and  looked        He  had  never  expected  to  be  found  out.     All 
earnestly  at  her  pale,  wasted  face.  his  plans  had  been  deliberately  and  carefully  pre- 

She  gave  a  long  sigh  as  she  contemplated  those  j  pared.  Immediately  after  Edward's  marriage 
wan  features,  the  shining  light  in  the  eyes,  that  i  and  safe  departure  for  the  Continent,  Paul  had  in- 
looked  unnaturally  large  by  reason  of  the  girl's  tended  to  conyey  Mary  and  the  child,  with  the 
hollow  cheeks.  .         •  |  grim  attendant  whom   he  had  engaged  for  thcTa, 

•Oh,  my  dear,'  cried  Prlrs..  Arundel,  'my  poor,  <  far  away,  toonaof  the  remotest  villages  in  Wales*, 
long-sufi'ering  child,  how  cruelly  they  have  Alone  he  wc^uld  have  done  this;  traveling  by 
treated  you  !'  '  \  night,  and  trusting  no  one;  for  the  hired  attendant 

Edward  looked  at  his  mother,  frightened  by  the  {  knew  nothing  of  Mary 's  real  position.  She  had 
earnestness  of  her  manner;  but  she  smiled  at  him  I  been  told  that  the  girl  was  a  poor  relation  of 
with  a  bright,  reassuring  look.  'Paul's,  "and  that  her  i-tory  was  a  very  sorrowful 

'1  shall  take  you  home  to  Dangerfield  with  me,  |  one.  if  the  poor  creature  had  strange  fancies' 
my  poor  love,'  she  said  to,  Mary;  'and  1  shall  and  delusions,  it  was  no  more  than  might  be  ex- 
nurse  jou,  and  make  you  a«  plump  as  a  partridge,  Lpected;  for  she  had  suffered  enough  to  turn  a 
-my  poor  wasted  pet.  And  I'll  be  a  mother  to  stronger  brain  than  her  own.  Every  thing  had 
you,  my  motherless  child.  Olf,  to  think  that  been  arranged,  awid  so  cleverly  arranged,  that 
there  should  be  any  wretch  vile  enough  to —  But !  Mary  and  the  child  would  disappear  alter  dusk 
I  won't  agitate  you,  my  dear.  I'll  take  you  away  j  one  summer  evening*  and  not  even  l.avinia  Wes- 
from  this  bleak  horrid  county  by  the  hirst  train  ;  ton  would  be  told  whither  they  had  gone. 
to  morrow  morning,  and  you  shall  sleep  to-mor-  i  Paul  had  never  expected  to  be  found  out.  But 
row  night  in  the  blue  bed-room  at  Dangerfield,  j  he  had  Icsst  of  all  expected  betrayal  from  the 
with  the  roses  and  myrtles  waving  against  your  |  quarter  vHience  it  had  come.  He  had  made 
window;  and  Edward  shall  go  with  us,  and  you  Olivia  his  tool;  but  he  had  acted  cautiously  even 
aha'n't  come  back  here  till  you're  well  and  |  with  her.  He  had  confided  nothing  to  htir;  and 
strong;  and  you'll  try  and  lo>c  me,  won't  you, ;  although -she  had.suspected  some  foul  play  in  the 
dear?  And  oh,  Edward,  I've  seen  the  boy!  audi  mutter  of  Mar'y's  disappearance,  she  had  been 
he's  a  superb  creature,  the  very  image  of  what  certain  of  nothing.  She  had  uttered  no  falsehood 
you  were  at  a  twelvemonth  old — and  he  came  to  }  when  she  iwore  to  Edward  Arundel  that  she  did 
me,  and  smiled  at  me,  almost  as  if  he  knew  I  wM  '  not  know  where  his  v.-ife  was.  But  for  her  acci- 
his  grandmother;  and  he  has  got  five  teeth,  but  dental  discovery  of  the  secretof  the  pavilion,  she 
I'm  sorry  to  tell  you  he's  cutting  them  cross- i  would  never  have  knov/n  of  Mary's  existence 
wj«e,  the  top  first  instead  of  the  bottom,  Hester  after  that  October  afternoon  on  which  the  girl 
Bays.'  ,  left  Marchmont  Towers. 

'And  Belinda,  mother  dear?'  Edward  said,}  But  here  Paul  had  been  betrayed  by  the  care- 
presently,  in  a  grave  undertone.  !  lessness  of  the  hired  girl  who  acted  as  Mary 
'Belinda  is  an  angel,'  Mrs.  Arundel  answered,  \  Aruti'del's  jailoi  and  attendant.  It  was  Olivia's 
quite  at  gravely.  'She  has  been  in  her  own  room  i  habit  to  wander  often  in  that  dreary  wood  by  the 
all  day,  and  no  one  has  seen  her  but  her  mother;  \  water  during  the  winter  in  which  Mary  was  kept 
but  she  came  down  to  the  hall  as  I  was  leaving  ;  prisoner  in  the'pavilion  over  the  boat-house.  La- 
the heuse  this  evening,  and  said  to  me,  "Dear  !  vinia  Weston  and  Paul  Marchmont  sper»t  each  of 
Mrs.  Arundel,  tell  him  that  he  must  ncft  think  1  j  th^ni  a  great  deal  of  their  rfime  in  the  pavilion; 
am  so  sel^sh  as  fo  be  sorry  for  what  has  hap-  Lbut  they  pould  not  be  always  on  guard  there. 
pened.  Tell  him  that  I  am  very  glad  to  think  his  jThere  was  the  world  to  be  hoodwinked ;  and  the 
young  wife  has  been  saved."  She  put  her  hand  surgeon's  wife  had  to  perform  alWher  duties  as  a 
up  to  my  lips  to  atop  my  speaking,  and  then  went  matron  before  the  face  of  Kembcrling,  and  had 
back  again  to  her  room;  and  if  that  isn't  acting  i  to  give  some  plausible  account  of  her  frequent 
like  an  angel,  I  don't  know  what  is.'  |  visits  to  the  boat-house.    Paul  liked  the  place  for 

j  his  painting,  Mr».  Weston  informed  her  friends; 

^^.^ j  and  he  was  so  enthusiastic  in  his  love  of  art,  that 

j  it  was  really  a  pleasure  to  participate  in  his  en- 
'  thusiasra;  so  she  liked  to  sit  v/ith  him,  and  talk  to 
him  or  read  to  him  while  he  painted.     This  ex- 
planation was  quite  enough  for  Kemherling,  and 
Mrs.  Weston  went  to  the  pavilion  at  Marchmont 
j  Towers  three  or  four  times  a  week  without  caui- 
'  ing  any  scandal  thereby. 


CHAPTER  XLI. 

'ALL   WITBIK   IS  PARK   AS  NIGHT. 


Papl  Marchmokt  did  not  leave  Stony-String- 
Ibrd  rarm-hou8«  till  dusk  upon  that  bright  sum* 


JOHN  MARCHMO^T'S  LEGACY.  154 

But  however  well  jou  may  manage  things ^twice-^by  her  cruelty?  Who  was  It  who  perit- 
ybli^self,  it  is  not  always  easy  to  secure  the  care-^cuted  her  and  tortured  her  day  by  day  and  hour 
ful  oo-operation  of  the  people  you  employ.  Betsy  ^  by  hour,  not  openly,  not  with  an  uplifted  hand 
Mur'rcl  was  a  stupid,  narrow-minded  young  per-^or  blows  that  could  be  warded  off',  but  by  cruel 
son,  who  was  very  safe  so  far  as  regarded  the  ^  hints  and  inuendoes,  by  unwomanly  sneers  and 
possibility  of  any  sympathy  with,  or  compassion  ^hellish  taunts.  Look  into  your  heart,  Olivia 
for,  Mary  Arundel  arising  in  her  stolid  nature;  :Marchmont;  and  when  you  make  atonement  for 
but  the  stupid  solidity  which  made  her  safe  in  ;  your  sin  I  will  make  restitution  for  mine,  lathe 
one  way  rendered  her  dangerous,  in 'another.  <  mean  time,  if  this  business  is  painful  to  you,  the 
One  day,  whi||  Mrs.  Weston  was  with  the  hap-;!  way  lies  open  before  you;  go  and  take  Edward 
less  young  prisoner.  Miss  Murrel  went  out  upon  ',  Arundel  to  the  pavilion  yonder  and  give  him  back 
the  water-side  to  converse  with  a  good-looking ;!  his  wife;  give  the  lie  to  all  your  past  life,  and 
young  bargeman,  who  was  a  connection  of  her ;,' restore  these  devoted  young  lovers  to  each  other'a 
family,  and    perhaps   an  admirer   of  the   young,  arms.' 

lady  herself;  and  the  door  of  the  painting-room  )     This  weapon  never  failed  in  its  effect;  Olivia 

being  left  wfde  open,  Olivia  Marchmont  wan-;  Marchmont  might   leathe   herself,,  and   her  sin, 

dered   listlessly   into  the   pavilion — there  was  a  j'and  her  life,  which  was  made  hideous  to  her  be- 

dismal  fascination  for  her  in  that  spot,  on  which  ;' cause  of  her  sin;  but  she  could  not  bring  herself 

.   she  had  heard  Edward   Arundel  declare  his  love  >  to  restore  Mary  to  her  lover-husband;  she  could 

fqf    John    Marchmont's    daughter  —  and  heard-; not  tolerate  the  idea  of  their  happiness.     Every 

.     Mary's  voice  in  the  chamber  at  the  top  of'the^night  »he  groveled  on  her  knees,  and  swore  to 

stone  steps.  ^  her* offended  God  that  she  would  do  this  thing, 

This  was  how  Olivia  had  surprised  Paul's  se-Jshe  ^ould  render  this  sacrifice  of  atonement;  but 

-cret;  and  from  that  hour  it  had  been  tlic  artist's  ;  every  morning,  when  her  weary  eyes  opened  on 

business  to  rule  this  woman  by  the  only  weapon  :  the  hateful  sunlight,  she  cried,  'Not  to-day;  not 

which  he  possessed  against  her — her  ov/n  secret,  I  to-day. ' 

her  own  weak  folly,  her  mad  love  of  Edward  (  Again  and  again,  during  Edward  Arundel'i 
Arundel  and  jealous  hatred  ol  the  woman  whom  residence  at  Kemberling  Retreat,  she  had  set  out 
he  had  loved.  This  weapon  was  a  very  powerful 'from  Marchmont  Towers  with  the  intention  of 
one.  and  Paul  used  it  unsparingly.  *         ;  revealing  to  him  the  place  where  his  young  wife 

When  the  woman  who  for  sevcn-and-twenty  ;  was  hidden;  but,  again  and  again,  she  had  turned 
years  of  her  life  had  lived  without  sin,  who  from  J  back  and  left  her  work  undone.  She  eould  not; 
the  hour  in  which  she  had  been  old  enough  to :  she  could  not.  In  the  dead  of  the  night,  under 
•  know  right  from  wrong  until  Edward  Arundel's ;  pouring  rain,  with  the  bleak  winds  of  winter 
second  return  from  India  had  sternly  done  her .';  blowing  in  her  face,  she  had  set  out  upon  that 
duty — when  this  woman,  who  little  by  little  had  ,'Utifini>hed  journey,  only  to  stop  midway,  and  cry 
slipped  away  from  her  high  standing-point  and  I^out,  'No,  no,  no;  not  to-night;  I  can  not  endure 
sunk  down  into  a   morass  of  sin — when  this  wo- /it  yet!' 

man  remonstrated  with  Mr.  Marchmont  he  turned  (  It  was  only  when  another  and  a  fiercer  jea- 
upon  her  and  lashed  her  with  the  scourge  of  her  lousy  was  awakened  in  this  woman's  breast  that 
own  folly.  fshe  arose  all  at  once,  strong,  resolute,  and  un- 

•You  come  and- upbraid  me,'  he  said,  'and /daunted,  to  do  the  work  she  had  so  miserably 
you  call  me  villain  and  arch-traitor,  and  say  that!  deferred.  As  one  poison  is  said  to  neutralize  the 
you  oannot  abide  this  your  sm;  and  that  your /evil  power  of  another,  so  Olivia  Marchmont'e 
guilt,  in  keeping  our  secret,  cries  to  you  in  the /.jealousy  of  Belinda  seemed  to  blot  out  and  ex- 
dead  hours  of  the  night;  and  you  call  upon  n^c  tmguish  her  hatred  of  Mary.  Better  any'lhing 
to  undo  what  I  have  done,  and  to  restore  Mary;  than  thaf  Edward  Arundel  should  have  a  new 
Marchmont  to  her  rights.  Do  you  remember)  ^'^  P<^rhaps  a  fairer  bride.  The  jealous  woman 
what  her  higheat  rinht  is?  Do  you  remember/ Irad  always  looked  upon  Mary  Marchmont  ai  a 
that  which  1  must  restore  to  her  when  I  give  her/  despicable  rival.  Better  that  Edward  should  be 
back  this  house  and  the  income  that  goes  along/ tied  to  this  girl  than  that  he  should  rejoice  in 
with  it?  If  I  restbre  Marchmohl  Towers  I  must'  the  smiles  of  a  lovelier  woman,  worthier  of  bit 
restore  to  her  Edward  .Iru-ndel's  love.  You  have  i^ffeetion.  This  was  the  feeling  paramount  in 
forgotten  that,  perhaps.  If  she  ever  re-enters  j  Olivia's  breast,  although  she  was  herself  half  un- 
this  hou-e  she  will  come  back  to  it  leaning  on  his  i  conscious  how  entirely  this  was  the  motive  power 
arm.  Y«m  will  see  them  together.  You  will  ;  which  had  given  her  new  strength  and  resolution, 
hear  of  their  happiness;  and  do  you  think  that  i  She  tried  to  tlimk  that  it  was  the  awakening  of 
ke  will  ever  forgive  you  for  your  part  of  the  con-j  her  conscience  that  had  made  her  Strong  enough 
spiracy  ?  Yes,  it  is  a  conspiracy,  if  you  like.  If  to  do  this  one  good  Hork;  but,  in  the  semi  dark- 
you  are  not  afraid  to  call  it  by  a  hard  name,  why  '  ness  of  her  cwn  mind,  there  was  still  a  feeble 
should  I  fear  to  do  so  .-  Will  he  ever  forgive  you, !  glimmer  of  the  light  of  truth;  and  it  was  this 
do  you  think,  when  he  knows  that  his  young  wife  ;  that  had  prompted  her  to  cry  out  on  her  kneea 
has  been  the  victim  of  a  senseless,  vicious  love? ;  before  the  altar  in  Hillingsworth  Church,  and  de> 
Yes,  Olivia  Marchmont,  any  love  is  vicious  which  ;  clare  the  sinfulness  of  her  nature, 
is  given  unsought,  and  is  so  strong  a  passion,  so  j 

blind  anj  unreasoning  a  folly,  that  honor,  mercy,  Paul  Marchmont  stopped  several  times  before 
truth,  and  Christianily  are  trampled  down  before,  the  ragccd,  untrimmed  fruit-trees  in  his  purpose- 
it.  How  will  you  endure  Edward  Arundel's  con- :  less  wanderings  in  the  neglected  garden  at  Stony 
tempt  for  you?  How  will  you  tolerate  his  love  j  Stringford,  before  the  vaporous  confusion  cleared 
for  Mary,  multiplied  twentyfold  by  all  this  away  from  his  brain,  and  he  was  able  to  under- 
•  romantic  business  of  separation  artd  persecution  ?  j  stand  what  had  happened  to  hire. 

'You  talk  to  me  of  my  sin.  Who  was  it  who  j  His  first  reasonable  action  was  to  take  out  hie 
first  sinned?  Who  was  it  who  drove  Mary!  watch;  but  even  then  he  stood  for  some  mo- 
Marchmout  from  this  house — Qot  onco  only,  but  j  mcnts  staring-a^t  the  dial  before  be  rem«mber«4 


156 


JOHN  MARCHMONT'S  LEGACY. 


why  he  had  taken  the  watch  from  his  pocket,  or  Isomethink  of  that  sound  like,  which  my  memory 
■what  it  was  that  he  wanted  to  know.  By  Mr.  jis  treechrous,  and  I  don't  wish  to  tell  a  story  on 
MarchmoDt's  chronometer  it  was  ten  minutes  !  no  account;  and  Mrs.  Marchmont  she  go  straight 
past  seven  o'clock;  but  the  watch  had  been  un- ,  up  to  my  young  lady,  and  she  shakes  her  by  the 
wound  upon  the  previous  night,  and  had  run  J  shoulder;  and  then  the  young  woman  called 
down.  Paul  put  it  back  in  his  waistcoat-pocket, ;  Hester,  she  wakes  up  my  young  iady  quite  gentle 
and  then  walked  slowly  along  .the  weedy  path-  like,  and  kisses  her  and  cries  over  her;  and  a  man 
way  to  that  low  latticed  window  in  which  he  had  ;as  drove  the  cart,  which  looked  a  small  trades- 
often  sgen  Mary  Arundel  standing  with  her  child  ;.  man  well-to-do,  brings  his  trap  roimd  to  the  front 
in  her  arms.  He  went  to  this  window  and  looked  ;door — you  may  see  the  trax  of  th"  wheels  upon 
in,  with  his  face  against  the  glass.  The  room  ;  the  gravel  now.  Sir,  if  you  disbelieve  me.  And 
was  neat  and  orderly  now,  for  tlie  woman  whom  ;  Mrs.  Marchmont  and  the  young  woman  called 
Mr.  Marchmont  had  hired  had  gone  about  her ;,  Hester,  between  'em  they  gets  my  young  lady 
work  as  usual,  and  was  in  the  act  of  filling  a  lit- ;^ up,  and  dresses  her,  and  dresses  the  child;  and 
tie  brown  earthen-ware  tea-pot  from  a  kettle  on  Jdoes  it  all  so  quick,  and  overrides  me  to  such  a 
the  hob  when  l"aul  stared  in  at  her.  {degree,  that  I  hadn't  no  power  to  prevent  'em; 

She  looked  up  as  Mr.  Marchmont's  figiire  came  ;  but  I  say  to  Mrs.  Marchmont,  I  say:  'Is  it  Mr. 
between  her  and  the  light,  and  nearly  dropped ;  Marchmont's  orders  as  his  cousin  should  be  took 
the  little  brown  tea-pot  in  her  terror  of  her  of- j  away  this  morning?'  and  she  stare  at  me  hard, 
fended  employer.  ;  and  say, 'Yes;'  and  she  have  alius  an  abrum'pt 

But  Paul  pulled  open  the  window,  and  spoke  ^  way,  but  was  abrumpter  than  ordinary  this  morn- 
to  her  very  quietly  :  'Stop  where  fou  are,'  he  ;  ing.  And  oh,  Sir,  bein'  a  pore  lone  woman, 
said;  'I  want  to  speak  to  you;  I'll  come  in.'*         '{what.was  I  to  do?' 

He  went  into  the  house  by  a  door  that  had  {     'Have  you  nothing  more  to  tell  me?' 
once  been  the  front  and  principal  entrance,  which  ; 
opened  into  a  loW'  wainscoted  hall      ~ 
room  he  went  into  the  parlor,  whi...  .a.  ......  „f,...   ,_    _.,   ^_,„  ^way  as  fast  as  his  horse 


From  this  <      'Nothing,  Sir;  leastways  except  as  they  lifted 
;  my  young  lady  into  the  cart,  and  the  man  got  iu 


parlor,  which  had  been  J '"^  ^"^^  """^  '''^"  "' 
-,  .         ,  ,,  *        »         J   •         u-  u    4U      alter    em,  and  drove 

Mary   Arundel  s   apartment    and  in   which   the  ^^^^  they  had  been  gone  two  minute, 

hired  nurse  wa     now   preparing   her  breakfat.  ^j^^-  jS^^         ^^  /^^^  a  tremble  like,  for 

'I  thought  I  might  as  weJ    get  a  cup  of  tea,  Sr, ,  ^^  j  ^  « 

while  I  waited  for  your  orders,    the  woman  raur-;       ,  °  ° 

mured,  apologetically;  'for  bein'  knocked  upso{^°"  ,  t^     , 

early  this  morning,  you  see,  Sir,  has  made  my  ^     'You  did  do  wrong,    Paul  answered,  sternly;, 
head   that    bad,  1   could   scarcely   bear  myself;  j '^u' no  "tatter.     If  these  officious  friends  of  my 

gjij '  •  poor  weak-witted  cousin  (Jioose  to  take  her  away, 

Paul  lifted  his  hand  to  stop  the  woman's  talk,  J  so  much  the  better  for  me,  who  have  been  bur- 
as  he  had  done  before.  He  had  no  consciousness  '/  dened  with  her  long  enough.  Since  your  charge 
of  what  she  was  saying,  but  the  sound  of  her !  has  gone,  your  services  are  no  longer  wanted.  1 
Toice  pained  him.  His  eyebrows  contracted  with  ]  sna'n  t  act  illiberally  to  you,  though  1  am  very 
a  spasmodic  action,  as  if  something  had  hurt  his )  much  annoyed  by  your  folly  and  stupidity.  Is 
^g3(j_  there  any  thing  due  to  you?' 

There  was  a  Dutch  clock  in  the  corner  of  the  ;     Mrs.  Brown  hesitated  for  a  moment,  and  then 

room,  with  a  long  pendulum  swinging  against  the  ;  replied,  in  a  very  insinuating  tone: 

wall.     By  this  clock  it  was  half  past  eight.  ',     'Not  ivages,  Sir;  there  ain't  no  wages  doo  to 

•Is  your  clock  right  ?'  Paul  asked,  I  me — which  you  paid  me  a  quarter  in  advance 

'Yes,  Sir.     Leastways,  it  maybe  five  minutes  j  last  Saturday  was  a  week,  and  took   a  receipt, 

too  slow;  but  not  more.'  '.■  Sir,  for  the  amount.     But  I  have  done  my  dooty, 

Mr.  Marchmont  .took  out  his  watch,  wound  it  J  Sir,  and  had  but  little  sleep  and  rest,  which  my 

up,  and  regulated  it. by  the'  Dutch  clock.  ',■  'ealth  ain't  what  it  was  when  I  answered  your 

'Now,'  he  said,  'perhaps  you  can  tell  me  clearly  { advertisement  requirin*  a  respectable  motherly 

what  happened.     1  want  no  excuses,  remember;  {person,  to  take  charge  of  a  invalid  lady,  not  ob- 

I  only  want  to  know  what  occurred,  and  what  <jectin' to  the  country — which  I  freely  tell  you, 

was  •aid,  word  for  word,  remember !'  ;Sir,  if  I'd  known  that  the  country  was  a  rheu- 

He  sat  down,  but  got  up  again   directly  and{matic  old  place  like  this,  with  rats  enough  to 

walked  |to  the  window;  then  he  paced  up  and  ^ scare  away  a  regyment  of  soldiers,  I  would  not 

down  the  room   tv/o   or  three  times,  and   then  {have  undertook  the  situation;  so  any  present  a» 

went  back  to  the  fire-place  and  sat  down  again.  ^  you  might  think  sootable,  considerin' all  thingi, 

He  was  like  a  man  who,  in  the  racking  torture^ and — ' 

of  some  physical  pain,  finds  a  miserable  relief  in  ^     'That  will  do,'  said  Paul  Marchmont,  taking  a 
his  own  restlessnesi.  i  handful   of  loose    money    from    his    waistcoat- 

'Come,' he  said;  'I  am  waiting.'  pocket;  'I  suppose  a  t«n-pound  note  would  satisfy 

•Yes,  Sir;  which,  begging  your  parding,  if  you  I  you  ?' 
TTOuldn't  mind  sitting  »till  like,  while  I'm  a-telling  |      'Indeed  it  would,  Sir,  and  rery  liberal  of  you 
of  you,  which  it  do  remind  me  of  tlje  wild  beastes   too. ' 

in  the  Zoological,  Sir,  to  that  degree,  that  the  !  'Very  well.  I've  got  a  five-pound  note  here 
boil,  to  which  I  am  subjeck,  Sir,  and  have  been  ]  and  five  sovereigns.  The  best  thing  yoli  can  do 
from  a  child,  might  prevent  me  bein 'as  truthful  as  I  is  to  get  back  to  London  at  once;  there's  a  train 
I  should  wish.  Mrs.  Marchmont,  Sir,  she  come  |  leaves  Milsome  Station  at  eleven  o'clock — Mil- 
before  it  was  light,  in  a  cart,  Sir,  which  was  a|  some's  not  more  than  a  mile  and  a  half  from 
»haycart,  and  m%de  comfortable  with  cushions  |  here.  You  can  get  your  things  together;  there's  ^ 
«nd  straw,  and  such  like,  or  I  should  not  have  let  f  a  boy  about  the  place  who  will  carry  them  for 
the  young  lady  go  away  in  it;  arid  she  bring  with  jyou,  1  suppose.' 

her  a  respectable  homely-looking  young  person,  j     'Yes,    Sir;   there's    a   boy  by  the    nama    of 
wiiich  «he  call  Hester  Jobling  6r  Gobson,  or  i  William.' 


JOHN  MARCHMONT'S  LEGACY. 


157 


'tie  can  go  with  you,  then;  and  if  you  lookUiently,  like    some  slow  disease  that  would  be 

sharp,  you  can  catch  the  eleven  o'clock  train.'       {surely  cured  in  the  grave,     it    had  been  so  easy 

'Yes,  Sir;  and  thank  you  kindly,  Sir.'  ;  to  deal  with  this  ignorant  and  gentle  victim  that 

'1  don't  Want  any  thanks.     See  that  you  don't '  Paul  had  grown  bold  and  confident,  and   had  ig- 

miss  the  train;  that's  all  you  have  to  take  care    nored  the  possibilitfi  of  such  ruin   as  had   now 

of.'  come  down  upon  him. 

Mr.  Marchmont  went  out  into  the  g&rden  again. '      What  was  he  to  do  .'    What  was  the  nature  ot 

He  had  done  something,  at  any  rate;  be   had  ar-    his   crime,  and   what  penalty  had    he  incurred.' 

ranged  for  getting  this  woman  out  of  the  way.       ■  He  tried  to    answer  these  questions,  byt,  as  his 

If — if  by  any  remote  chance  there  might  be    offense  was  of  no    common  kind,  he  knew  of  no 

yet  a  possibility  of  keeping  the  secret  of  Mary's    common  law  which  eould  apply  to  it.     Was  it  a 

existence,  here  was  one  witness  already  got  rid  !  felony,   this    appropriation  of    another   person's 

of.  ['property,  this  concealment  of   another  person's 

But  was  there  any  chance?     Mr.  Marchmont  I exis.tence?  or  was  it  only  a  conspiracy  amenable 

sat  down  on  a  rickety  old  garden-seat,  and  tried  ;  to  no  criminal  law,  and  would  he  be  calif  d  upon 

to  think — tried  to  take  a  deliberate  survey  of  his  !  merely  to  make  restitution  of  that  which  he  had 

position.  '^ spent  and  wasted  ?     What  did  it  matter?     Either 

No;  there  was  no  hope  for  him.     Look  which  ^  way  there  was  nothing  for  him  but  ruin,  irretrier- 

way  he  could,  there  was  not  one  ray  of  light.  ,' able  ruin. 

With  George  Weston  and  Olivia,  Betsey  Murrel,  \  There  are  some  men  who  can  survive  discov- 
the  servtint-gh-l,  and  Hester  Jobson,  to  bear  wit- •  ery  and  defeat,  and  begin  a  new  life  in  a  new 
ness  against  him,  what  could  he  hope?  ^  world,  and  succeed   in  a  new  career.     But  Paul 

The  surgeon  would  be  able  to  declare  that  the  '  Marchmont  was  not  one  of  these.  He  could  not 
child  was  Mary's  son,  her  legitimate  son,  sole  |  stick  a  hunting-knife  and  a  brace  of  revolvers  in 
heir  to  that  estate  of  which  Paul  had  taken -pos- j  his  leathern  belt,  sling  a  game-bag  across  hii 
session.  '  shoulders,  take  up  his  breach-loading  rifle,  and  go 

There  was  no  hope.  There  ws^s  no  possibility  out  into  the  baek-woods  of  an  uncivilized  coun- 
that  Olivia  should  waver  in  her  purpose;  for  had  try,  to  turn  sheep-breeder,  and  hold  his  own 
she  not  brought  with  her  two  witnesses — Hester  against  a  race  of  agricultural  savages.  He  was 
Jobson  and  her  husband  ?  (  a  Cockney,  and  for  him  there  was  only  one  world 

From  that  moment  the  case  was  taken  out  of! — a  world  in  which  men  wore  varnished  boots; 
her  hands.  The  honest  carpenter  and  his  wife|and  enameled  shirt-studs,  with  portraits  of  La 
would  see  that  Mary  had  her  rights.  ^  Montespan  or  La  Dubarry,  and  lived  in    cham- 

'It  will  be  a  glorious  speculation  for  them.'^bers  in  the  Albany,  and  treated  each  other  to 
thought  Paul  Marchmont,  whonaturally  measured  ^little  dinners  at  Greenwich  and  Richmond,  or  cut 
other  people's  characters  by  a  standard  derived  ';a  grand  figure  at  a  country  house,  and  collected  a 
from  an  accurate  knowledge  of  his  own.  ) gallery  of  art  and  a  museum  of  brie  abrac.     1  his 

Yes,  his  ruin  was  complete.  Destruction  had  ;  was  the  world  upon  the  outer  edge  of  which  IJpul 
come  upon  him,  swift  and  sudden  as  the  caprice  ;  Marchmont  had  lived  so  long  -looking  in  at  the 
of  a  madwoman — or — the  thunder-bolt  of  an  of- ^brilliant  inhabitants  with  hungry,  yearning  eyes, 
fended  Providence.  What  should  he  do?  Run  ; through  all  the  days  of  his  poverty  and  obscurity." 
away,  sneak  away  by  back-lanes  and  narrow  4|This  was  the  world  into  which  he  had  pushed  him- 
foot-paths  to  the  nearest  railway-nation,  hide  self  at  l^st  by  means  of  a  crime, 
himself  in  a  third-class  carriage  going  London-!;  He  was  forty  years  of  age  ;  and  in  all  his  life 
wards,  and  from  London  get  away  to  Liverpool, ;  he  had  never  had  but  one  ambition — and  that 
to  creep  on  board  some  emigrant  vessel  bound  for  was  to  be  master  of  Marchmont  Towers.  The 
New  York.  :  remote  chance  of  that  inheritance  had  hung  be- 

He  could  not  ev«n  do  this  ;  for  hfe  was  with-  fore  him  ever  since  his  boyhood,  a  glittering 
out  the  means  of  gettin^so  much  as  the  railway-  prize,  far  away  in  ths  distance,  but  so  brilliant 
tickef  that  should  carry  him  on  the  first  stage  of  ■  as  to  blind  him  to  the  brightness  of  all  nearer 
his  flight.  After  having  given  ten  pounds  to  i  chances.  He  was  wailing.  From  the  time  when 
Mrs.  Brown,  he  had  only  a  few  shillings  in  his  '  he  could  scarcely  speak  plain,  Marchmont  Towers 
waistcoat  pocket.  He  had  only  one  article  of  had  been  a  familiar  word  in  his  ears  and  on  his 
any  value  about  him,  and  that  was  his  watch, /lips.  He  knaw  the  number  of  lives  that  stood 
which  had  cost  fifty  pounds.  But  the  March-  between  his  father  and  the  estate,  and  had  learn- 
mont  arms  were  emblazoned  on  the  outside  of  ^  ed  to  say,  naively  enough  then": 
the  case;  and  Paul's  name  in  full,  and  the  ad-'  'Oh,  pa,  don't  you  wish  that  Uncle  Phillip, 
dress  of  Marchmont  Towers,  were  ostentatiously  and  Uncle  Marmaduke,  and  Cousin  John  would 
engraved  inside,  so  that  any  attempt  to   dispose    die  soon  r' 

df  the  watch  must  inevitably  lead  to  the  identifi-  He  was  two-and-twenfy  years  of  age  wh«n 
cation  of  the  owner.  hi">  father  died  :  and  he  felt  a  faint  thrill  of  sat- 

Paul  Marchmont  had  made  no  provision  for  isfaction,  even  in  the  midst  of  his  sorrow,  at  the 
this  evil  day.  Supreme  in  the  consciousness  of  thought  that  there  was  one  life  the  legs  between 
his  own  talents,  he  had  never  imagined  discovery  him  and  the  end  of  his  hopes.  But  other  lives 
and  destruction.  His  plans  had  been  so  well  ar-  had  sprung  up  in  the  interim.  Thi-re  wss  young 
ranged.  On  the  very  day  after  Edward's  second  ^Arthur  and  little  Mary  ;  and  Marchmont  Towers 
marriage  Mary  and  her  child  would  have  been  was  like  a  caravanserai  in  the  deserl,  which 
conveyed  away  to  the  r«tnolc8t  district  in  Wales;  seems  to  be  further  and  further  away  as  the  weary 
and  the  artist  would  have   laughed  at  the   idea  of   traveller  strives  to  reach  it. 

danger.  The  shallow  schemer  might  have  been  Still  Paul  hoped,  and  watched,  and  waited, 
able  to  manage  this  poor  broken-hearted  girl.  He  had  all  the  instincts  of  a  sybarite,  and  he 
whose  many  sorrows  had  brought  her'to  look  fancied,  therefore,  that  he  was  destined  to  be  a 
upon  life  as  a  thing  which  was  never  meant  to  be  rich  man.  He  witched,  and  waited,  and  hoped, 
joyful,  and   which  was  only  to  be  eDdur*d  pa-   and   cheered   his  mother  and  sister  whea  th«y 


158 


JOHN  marchmoi5t's  legacy. 


were  downcast  with  the  hope  of  better  dayi. 
When  the  chance  came  he  seized  upon  it,  and 
plotted,  and  succeeded,  and  rcTcled  in  his  brief 
success. 

But  now  ruin  had  come  to  him  what  was  he  to 

do?     He  tried   to  make  some  plan  .for  his  own 

conduct,    but   hs  could    not.      His  brain  reeled 

♦with  the  effort  which  he  made  to  realize  his  own 

position. 

He  walked  up  and  down  one  of  the  path-ways 
in  the  garden  until  a  quarter  to  ten  o'clock  ;  then 
he  went  into  the  house,  and  waited  till  Mrs. 
Brown  had  departed  from  Stony  Stringford  Farm, 
atlended  by  the  boy,  who  carried  two  bundles,  a 
band-bos,  and  a  carpet-bag. 

'  ComC' back  her^  when  you  have  taken  those 
things  to  the  station,'  Paul  said, 'I  shall  want  you.' 

He  watched  the  dilapidated  five-barred  gate 
swing  to  after  the  departure  of  Mrs.  Brown  and 
her  attendant,  and  then  went  to  look  at  his  horse. 
The  patient  animal  had  been  standing  in  a  shed 
all  this  time,  and  had  had  neither  food  nor  wa- 
ter. Paul  searched  among  the  empty  barns  and 
outiiouses,  and  found  a  few  handfuls  of  fodder. 
"  He  took  this  to  the  animal,  and  then  went  backj; 
to  the  garden 


Mr.  Paul  Marchmont  was  afraid.  A  terrible 
sickening  dread  had  taken  possession  of  him,  and 
what  little  manliness  there  ever  had  been  in  hi* 
nature  seemed  to  have  deserted  him  to  day.  • 

Oh,  the  Jonp^,  dreary  hours  of  that  miserable 
day !  the  hideous  sunshine  that  scorched  Mr. 
Marchmont's  bare  head  as  he  loitered  about  the 
garden  ! — he  had  left  his  hat  in  the  house;  but  he 
did  not  even  know  that  he  was  bareheaded.  Oh, 
the  misery  of  that  long  day  of  suspense  and  an- 
guish !  The  sick  consciousness  of  utter  defeat,  ■ 
the  thought  of  the  things  that  he  might  have  done, 
the  purse  that  he  might  have  made  with  tha 
money  that  he  had  lavished  on  pictures,  and  dec- 
orations, and  improvements,  and  the  profligate 
extravagance  of  splendid  entertainments  !  This 
is  what  he  thought  of,  and  these  were  the  thoughts 
that  tortured  him.  But  in  ail  that  miserable  day 
he  never  felt  one  pang  of  remorse  for  the  ago- 
nies that  he  had  inflicted  ui^on  his  innocent  vic- 
tim; on  the  contrary,  he  Jiated  her  because  of 
this  discovery;  and  gnashed  his  teeth  as  he  thought 
how  she  and  her  young  husband  would  enjoy  all 
the  grandeur  of  Marchmont  Towers — all  that  no- 
ble revenue  which  he  had  hoped  to  hold  till  his 


to  that  quiet  garden,  where  the'^dyiiig  day. 
bees  were  buzzing  abdlit  in  the  sunshine  with  a  |  It  was  growing  dusk  when  Mr.  Marchmont 
drowsy,  booming  sound,  and  wh^re  a  great  tabby  ^  heard  the  soun^d  of  wheels  in  the  dusty  lane  out- 
cat  was  sleeping,  stretched  flat  upon  its  side,  on  {  side  the  garden  wall.  He  went  through  the 
one  of  the  flower-beds.  {  house,  and  into  the  farm-yard,  in  time  to  receive 

Paul  IVlarchmont  waited  here  very  impatiently  J  his  sister  Lavinia  at  the  gate.     It  was  the  wheeli  ^ 
till  the  boy  came  back.  ;  of  her  pony-carriage  he  had  heard. 

♦I  must  see  Lavinia,'  he  thought.  'I  dare;;  Mrs.  Weston  was  very  pake,  and  her  brother 
not  leave  this  place  till  I  have  seen  Lavinia.  I' could  see  by  her  face  that  she  brought  him  no 
don't  know  what  .may  be  happening  at  Hillings-^  good  news.  She  left  her  ponies  to  the  care  of 
worth  or  Kemberling.  These  things  are  taken;  the  boy,  and  went  into  the  garden  with  her 
up  sometimes  by  the  populace.  They  may  make;  brother. 
a  narty  against  me,  they  may — '  5      'Weil,  Lavinia?' 

fie  stood  still,  gnawing  the  edges  of  his  Hails,;  'Well,  Paul,  it  is  -a  dreadful  business,'  Mrs. 
and  staring  down  at  the  gravel-walk.  s  Weston  said,  in  a  low  voice. 

He  was  thinking  of  things  that  he  had  read  in  >  'It's  all  George's  doing  !  It's  all  the  work  of 
the»newspapers — cases  in  which  some  cruel  mo- ( that  infernal  scoundrel !' cried  Paul  passionately, 
ther   who   had   ill-used    her  child,  or  some  sus*|'But  he  shajl  pay  bitterly  for — ' 


pected  assassin  who,  in  all  human  probability,  had 
poisoned  his  wife,  had  been  well  nigh  torn  piece- 
meal by  an  infuriated  mob,  and  had  been  glad  to 
cling  for  protection  to  the  officers  of  justice,  or 
to  beg  leave  to  stay  in  prison  after  acquittal,  for 
safe  shelter  from  honest  men  and  women's  indig- 
nation. 

He  remembered  one  special  case  in  which  the 
populace,  unable  to  getata  man's  person,  tore 
down  his  house,  and  vented  their  fury  upon  un- 
sentient  bricks  and  mnrtar. 

Mr.  Marchmont  took  out  a  little  memorandum 
book,  and  scrawled  a  few  lines  in  pencil: 

'I  am  here,  at  Stony  Stringford  Farm-house,' 
he  wrote.  'For  God's  sakecome^to  me,  La- 
vinia, and  at  once;  you  can  drive  here  yourself. 
I  want  to  know  what  has  happened  at  Kemberling 
and  at  Hillingsworth.  .Find  out  every  thing  for 
me,  and  come.  .  P.  M.' 

It  was  nearly  twelve  o'clock  when  the  boy  re- 
turned. ^Paul  gave  him  this  letter  and  told  the 
lad  to  get  on  his  own  horse,  and  ride  to  Kember- 
ling as  fast  as  he  could  go.  He  was  to  leave  the 
horse  at  Kemberling,  in  Mr.  Weston's  stable,  and 
was  to  come  back  to  Stony  Stringford  with  Mrs. 
Wegton.  This  order  Paul  particularly  impressed 
upon  the  boy,  lest  he  should  stop  in  Kember- 
ling, and  rcTcal  the  secret. of  Paul's  hiding- 
place. 


'Don't  let  us  talk  of  him,  Paul;  no  good  can 
come  of  that.     What  are  you  going  to  do  ?' 

'I  don't  know.  I  sent  for  you  because  I 
wanted  your  help  and  advice.  What's  the  good 
of  your  copiing  if  you  bring  me  no  help  ?' 
'  'Don't  be  cruel,  Paul.  Heaven  knows  I  will 
do  my  best.  But  I  can 'f  see  what's  to  be  ^one — 
except  for  you  to  get  away,  Paul.  Every  thing's 
known.  Olivia  stopped  the  marriage  publicly  iu 
Hillingsworth  Church:  and  all  the  Hillingsworth 
people  followed  Edward  Arundel's  carriage  to 
Kemberling.  The  report  spread  like  wild  fire; 
and  oh,  Paul !  the  Kemberling  people  have  taken 
it  up,  and  our  windows  have  been  broken,  and 
there's  been  a  crowd  all  day  upon  the  terrace  of 
the  Towers,  and  they've  tried  to  get  into  the 
house,  declaring  that  they  know. you're  hiding 
somewhere.  Paul,  Paul,  what  aie  we  to  do.' 
The  people  hooted  after  me  as  I  drove  away  from 
the  High  Street,  and  the  boys  threw  stones  at  the 
ponies.  Almost  all  the  servants  have  left  the 
Towers.  The  constahles  have  been  up  there 
trying  to  get  the  crowd  off"  the  terrace.  But  what 
are  we  to  do,  Paul?  what  are  we  to  do? 

'Kill  ourselves,'  answered  the  artist,  savagely. 
'What  else  should  we  do?  What  have  we 
to  live  for?  You  have  a  little  money,  I  sup- 
pose; I  have  none.  Do  you  think  I  can  go  back 
to  the  «ld  life?  Do  you  think  Lean  go  back, 
and  live  in  that  shabby  house  in  Cnarlotte  Street-, 
and  paint  the  same  rocju  aud  boulders,  the  same 


JOHN  MARCHMONT'S  LEGACY. 


159 


long  str«tch  of  8«a;  the  same  low  lurid  streaks 
of  light — all  the  old  subjects  over  again — for  the 
same  starvation  prices  ?  Do  you  think  I  can 
ever  tolerate  shabby  clothes  again,  or  miserable 
makeshift  dinners — ha«hed  mutton,  M'itii  ill-cut 
hunks  of  lukewarm  jneat  floating  about  in  greasy 
slop  called  gravy,  and  washed  down  with  Hut 
porter,  fetched  half  an  hour  too  soon  from  a  pub- 
lic house — do  you  think  i  can  go  bacK  to  thai  .' 
No;  I  have  tasted  the.  cream  of  life;  I  have 
lived;  and  I'll  nfever  go  back  to  the  living  death 
called  ^jovcrty.  Do  you  think  1  can  stand  in  that 
passage  in  Cliarlotte  Street  again,  Ijavinia,  to  be 
bullied  by  an  illiterate  tax-gatherer,  or  insulted 
by  an  infuriated  baker?  JNo,  Lavinia;  1  have 
made  my  venture,  and  I  have  failed.' 

'But  what  will  you  do,  Paul ':' 

'I  don't  know,'  he  answered)  moodily. 

This  was  a  lie.  He  kn«w  well  enough  what  he 
meant  to  do;  he  wouW  kill  himself. 

That  resolution  inspired  him  witli  a  desperate 
kin'd  of  courage.  He  ^^Jould  escape  from  tfic  mob; 
he  would  get  away  somewhere  or  other  quietly, 
and  there  kill  himself.  He  didn't  know  how  as 
yet;  but  he  would  deliberate  upon  lhs\f,  point  at 
his  leisure,  and  choose  the  death  that  was  sup- 
posed to  be  least  painful. 

'Where  are  my  mother  and  Clarissa.''  he  asked, 
presently. 

'They  are  at^our  house;  they  came  to  me  di- 
rectly they  heard  the  rumor  of  what  had  hap- 
pened. I  don't  know  how  they- heard  it;  but 
every  one  heard  of  it  simultaneously  as  it  seemed. 
My  mother  is  iij  a  dreadful  state.  1  dared  not 
tell  her  that  1  had  known  it  all  along.' 

'Oh,  of  course  not,'  answered  Paul,  with  a 
snfier;  'let  me  bear  the  burden  of  my  guilt  alone. 
What  did  my  mother  sayf'  , 

•She  kept  saying  again  and  again,  "I  can't  be- 
lieve it.  1  can't  believe  that  he  coiiM  do  any 
thing  cruel;  he  has  been  such  a  good  son."  ' 

•1  was  not  cruel,'  Paul  Marchmont  cried,  ve- 
hemently;'the  girl  had  every  comfort.  1  never 
grudged  money  lor  her  comfort.  She  was  a  mis- 
erable, apathetic  creature,  to  whom  fortune  was 
almost  a  burden^rathcr  than  an  advantage.  If  I 
separated  hirr  from  her  husband — bah  !-^was  that 
such  a  cruelty.'  She  was  no  worse  off  than  if 
Kdward  Arundel  had  been  killed  in  that  railway 
accident;  and  it  might  have  been  so.' 

He  didn't  waste  much'time  by  reasoning  on 
this  point.  He  thought  of  his  mother  and  sis- 
ters. From  first  to  last  he  had  been  a  good  eon 
and  a  good  brother. 

'What  money  have  you,  Lavinia.'' 

'A  good  deal;  you  hav«  been  very  generous  to 
me,  Paul;  and  you  shall  have  it  all  back  again  il 
you  want  it.  1  hare  got  upward  of  two  thousand 
pounds  altogether;  for  I  have  been  very  careful  of 
thrmoncy  you  have  given  me.' 

'You  have  been  wise.  Now  listen  to  me,  La- 
vinia. I  have  been  a  good  son,  and  I  have  borne 
my  burdens  uncomplainingly.  It  is  your  turn  now 
to  bear  yours.  I  must  get  back  to  Marchmont 
Towers,  if  1  can,  and  gatlier  together  whatever 
personal  property  I  hare. there.  It  isn't  much — 
only  a  few  trinkets,  and  snth  like.  You  must 
send  me  some  one  you  can  trust  to  fetch  those  to- 
night; for  I  shall  not  stay  an  hour  in  the  phcc  I 
may  not  even  be  admitted  into  it;  forlvlwar.! 
Arundi^l  may  htve  already  t«lten  po^sisysion  in 
his  wife's  name.  Then  you  will  have  to  decide 
where  you  are  to  go.  You  can 't  ttay  in  this  part 
of  the  country.     Wtiton  must  b«  liable  to  tame 


J  penalty  or  other  for  his  share  in  the  business,  un- 
/  less  he's  bought  over  ai  a  witness  to  testify  to  the 
,;  identity  of  Mary's  chikl.  1  haven't  time  to  thint 
of  all  this.  1  want  you  to  promise  me  that  you 
will  take  care  of  your  mother  and  your  invalid 
/sister.' 

:  '1  will,  Paul.  I  will  indeed.  But  tell  me  what 
jyou  ace  going  to  do  yourself,  and  where  you  are 
;  going.' 

'1  don't  know,' Paul  Marchmont  answered,  in 
the  same  tone  as  before;  'but  whatever  I  do  I 

■  want  you  to  give  me  your  »oIemn  promise  that 
you  will  be  good  to  my  mother  and  sister.' 

>  '1  will,  Paul',  I  promise  you  to  do  as  you  have 
;donc.' 

•You  had  better  leave  Kembcrling  by  the  first 

>  train  to-morrow  morning;  take  my  mother  anjji 
/Clarissa  with  you;  take  every  thing  that  is  worth 
Making,  and  leave  Weston  behind  you  to  bear  the 
;  brunt  of  this  business.     You  can  get  a  lodging  in 

■  the  old  neighborhood,  and  no  one  will  molest  you 
I  when  you  once  get  away  from  this  place.  13iit 
;  remember  one  thing,  Lavinia;  if  Mary  .\nindci's 

■  cliild    should   die,  and    Mary   herself  shruid  die, 
/  childless,  Clarissa  will  inherit  Marchmont  "Tow-' 
|ers'.     Don't  forget  that.     There's  a  chance  far 
;away,  j\rid  unlikely  enough;  but  it  is  a  chance.' 

\  'But  you  are  more  likely  to  outlive  Mary  and 
jhcr  child  than  Clarissa  is,'  Mrs  Weston  an- 
jswcred,  with  a  feeble  attempt  at  hopefulness; 
j'try  and  think  of  tha«,  I'uul,  and  let  the  hope 
;  cheer  you.' 

;      'Hope  !'  cried  Mr.  Marchmont,  with  a  discord- 
;  ant  laugh.     'Yes;  I'm  forty  years  old,  and  for 
;  liv'e-and-thirfy   of    those  -years   I've   hoped    and 
J  waited  for  Marchmont  Towers.    I  can't  hope  any 
(longer,   or  wait  any  longer.     I  give  it  up;  I've 
(  fought  hard,  but  I'm  beaten.' 
j      It  was  nearly  dark  by  this  time,  the  shadowy 
darkness  of  a  midsi/mmer's  evening;  and  there 
;  were  stars  shining  faintly  out  of  the  sky. 
]     'You  can  drive  me  back  to  the  Towers,'  Paul 
Marchmont  said.     'I  don't  want  to  lose  any  time 
-in  gettit.g  there:  1  may  be  locked  out  by  Mr.  Ed- 
ward Arundel  if  I  don't  take  care.' 

Mis.  Weston  and  her  brother  went  back  to  the 
farm-yard.  It  was  sixteen  miles  from  Kembcr- 
ling to  Stony-Slringford;  and  the  ponies  were 
steaming,  for  Lavinia  had  come  at  a  good  rate. 
But  it  was  no  time  for  the  consideration  of  horse- 
flesh. Paul  took  a  rug  from  the  empty  seat  aiid 
/Wrapped  him-elf  in  it.  He  \l'ould  not  be  likeh 
to  be  recognized  in  the  darkness,  sitting  back  in 
;  the  low  seat,  and  made  bulky  by  th«j  ponderous 
covering  in  whjrh  he  had  enveloped  himself. 
Mrs.  WiVon  took  the  whip  from  the  boy,  gath^ 
ercd  up  the  reins,  and  drove  off.  Paul  had  leu 
no  orders  about  the  custody  of  the  old  farm- 
house. The  hoy  went  home  to  his  master,  at  the 
other  end  of  the  farm;  and  the  night-winds  wan- 
dered wherever  they  listed  through  the  deserted 
habitation. 


CHAPTER  XLH. 

'THKRE    1%    COKrUflON    WORSE    THAN    DEATH.' 

The   brofhrr  an(|  sister  exchanged   very  few 

words  during  the  drive  between  Stony-Stringford 

and   Marchmont  Towers.     It  was  arranged  be- 

jlween  them  that  Mrs.  Weston  should  drive  by  a 

{back  way  leading  to  a  lane  that  ikirted  the  edge 


180 


JOHN  MARCHMONT'S  LEGACY. 


of  the  rirer;  and  that  Paul  should  get  out  at  a 
gate  opening  into  the  wood,  and  by  that  means 
make  his  way  unobserved,  to  the  house  which 
had  80  lately  been  to  all  intents  and  purposes  his 
own 

He  dared  not  attempt  to  enter  the  Towers  by 
any  other  way;  for  the  indignant  populace  might 
itill  oe  lurking  about  the  front  of  the  bouse,  eager 
to  inflict  summary  vengeance  upon  the  persecutor 
of  a  helpless  girl. 

It  wai  between  nine  and  ten  o'clock  when  Mr. 
Marchmont  got'out  at  the  little  gate.  All  here 
was  as  still  as  death;  and  Paul  heard  the  croak- 
ing of  the  frogs  upon  the  margin  of  a  little  pool 
in  the  wood,  and  the  sound  of  horses'  hoofs  a 
mile  away  upon  the  loose  gravel  by  the  water- 
side. 

•  'Good-night,  Lavinia,' he  said.  'Send  for  the 
things  as  soon  as  you  go  back;  and  be  sure  you 
send  a  safe  person  for  them." 

'Oh  yes,  dear;  but  hadn't  you  better  take  any 
thing  of  value  yourself?'  Mrs.  Weston  asked, 
anxiously.  'You  say  you  have  no  money.  Per- 
haps it  would  be  best  for  you  to  send  me  the  jew- 
•elry,  though,  and  1  can  send  you  what  money  you 
want  by  my  messenger. ' 

'I  sha'n't  want  any  money — at  least  I  have 
enough  for  what  I  want.  Wbat  have  you  done 
with  your  savings.'' 

'They  are  in  a  London  bank.  But  I  have 
plenty  of  ready  money  in, the  heuse.  You  must 
want  money,  Paul  ?' 

*1  tell  you,  no.     1  have  as  much  as  1  want.' 

♦But  tell  me  your  plans,  Paul;  1  must  know 
your  plans  before  1  leave  Lincolnshire  myself. 
Are  you  going  away?' 

•Yes.' 

'Immediately?' 

'Immediately.' 

'Shall  you  &o  to  London  ?l 

'Perhaps.    1  don't  know  yet.' 

'But  when  shall  we  see  you  again, 'Paul?  or 
bow  shall  we  hear  of  you?' 

'I'll  write  to  y«u.' 

'Where?' 

'At  the  post-office  in  Rathbone  Place.  Dyn't 
bother  me  with  a  lot  of  questions  to-night,  La- 
vin*ia;  I'm  not  in  thfe  humor  to  answer  them.' 

Paul  Marchmont  turned  away  from  his  sister 
impatiently,  and  opened  the  gate;  but  before  she 
had  driven  off  he  went  back  to  her. 

'Shake  hands,  Lavinia,'  he  said;  'shake  hands, 
my  dear;  it  may  be  a  long  time  before  you  and  1 
meet  again.' 

He  bent  down  and  kissed  his  sister. 

•Drive  home  as  fast  as  you  can,  and  sand  the 
tnesscnger  directly.  He  had  better  co^e  to  the 
door  of  the  lobby,  near  Olivia's  room.  Where  is 
Uhvia,  by-lhe-by?  Is  she  still  with  the  step- 
daughter she  loves  so  dearly  ?' 

'iNo;  she  went  to  Swampmgton  early  in  the  af- 
ternoon. A  fly  was  ordered  from  the  Black  Bull, 
and  she  went  away  in  it.' 

'So  much  the  better,'  answered  Mr.  March- 
mont. 'Good^night,  Lavuiia.  Don't  let  ray 
mother  think  ill  of  me.  1  tried  to  do  the  best  1 
could  to  make  hsr  happy.     Good-by.' 

'Good-by,  dear  Paul;  God  bless  you?' 

The  blessing  was  invoked  with  as  much  sin- 
cerity as  if  Lavinia  Weston  had  been  a  good  vvu- 
mun,  and  her  brother  a  good  man.  Perhaps 
ueither  of  those  two  was  able  to  realize  the  ex- 
tent of  the  crime  which  they  Lad  assisted  each 
•tker  to  commit. 


Mrs.  Weston  drove  away;  and  Paul  went  up  to 
the  back  of  the  Towers,  and  under  an  archway 
leading  into  the  quadrangle.  All  about  the  house 
was  as  quiet  as  if  the  Sleeping  Beauty  and  her 
court  had  been  its  only  occupants. 

The  inhabitants  of  Kemberling  and  the  neigh- 
borhood were  an  orderly  people,  who  burnt  few 
candles  between  May  ahd  September;  and  how- 
ever much  they  might  have  desired  to  avenge 
Mary  Arundel's  wrongs  by  tearing  Paul  March- 
mont to  pieces,  their  patience  had  been  ex- 
hausted by  nightfall,  and  they  had  been  glad  to 
return  to  their  respective  abodes  to  discuss  Paul's 
iniquities  comfortably  over  the  nine  o'clock  beer. 

Paul  stood  still  in  the  quadrangle  for  a  few 
moments,  and  listened.  He  could  hear  no  human 
breath  or  whisper;  he  only  heard  the  sound  of 
the  corn-crake  in  the  fields  to  the  right  of  the 
Towers,  and  the  distant  rumbling  of  wagon- 
wheels  on  the  high-road.  There  was  a  glimmer 
of  light  in  one  of  the  windows  belonging  to  the 
servants'  offices — only  oi^e  dim  glimmer,  where 
there  had  usually  been  a  row  of  brilliantly-lighted 
casements.  Lavinia  was  right,  then;  almost  all 
the  servants  had  left  th*  Towers.  Paul  tried  to 
open  the  half-glass  door  leading  into  the  lobby; 
but  it  was  locked.  He  rang  a  bell; 'and  after 
about  three  minutes'  delay  a  buxom  country-girl 
appeared  in  the  lobby  carrying  a  candle.  She 
was  some  kitchen-maid,  or  dairy-maid,  or  scul- 
lery-maid, whom  Paul  could  not  remember  to 
have  ever  seen  until  now.  She  opened  the  door 
and  admitted  him,  dropping  a  courtesy  as  he 
passed  her.  There  was  some  relief  even  in  this. 
Mr.  Marchmont  had  scarcely  expected  to  get  into 
the  house  at  all;  still  less  to  be  received  with 
common  civility  by  any  of  the  servants,  who  had 
so  lately  obeyed  him  and  fawned  upon  him. 

'Where  are  all  the  rest  of  the  servants?'  he 
asked. 

'They're  all  gone.  Sir;  except  him  as  you 
brought  down  from  London — Mr.  Peterson — and 
me  and  mother.  Mother's  in  the  laundry,  Sir; 
and  I'm  scullery-maid.' 

'Why  did  the  other  servants  leave  the  place?' 

'Mostly  because  they  was  ajraid  of  the  mob 
upon  the  terrace,  I  think.  Sir;  for  there's  been 
people  all  the  afternoon  throwin'  stones  and 
breakin'  the  windows;  and  1  don't  think  as  there's 
a  whole  pane  of  glass  in  the  front  of  the  house, 
Sir;  and  Mr.  Gormby,  Sir,  he  come  about  four 
o'clock,  and  he  got  the  people  to  go  away.  Sir, 
by  tellin'  'em  as  it  warn't  your  property,  Sir,  but 
the  young  lady's.  Miss  Mary  Marchmont — least- 
ways, Mrs.  Airendale — as  they  was  destroyin' of; 
but  most'  of  the  servants  had  gone  be'fore  that. 
Sir,  except  Mr.  Peterson;  and  Mr.  Gormby  give 
orders  as  me  and  mother  was  to  lock  all  the 
doors,  and  let  no  one  in  upon  no  account  what- 
ever; and  he's  comin'  to-morrow  mornin'to  take 
possession,  he  says;  and  please,  Sir,  you  can't 
come  in;  for  his  special  orders  to  me  and  mother 
was,  no  one,  and  you,  in  particklar. ' 

'Nonsense,  girl !'  exclaimed  Mr.  Marchmont, 
decisively;  'who  is  Mr.  Gormby,  that  he  should 
give  orders  at  to  who  comes  in  or  stops  out?  I'm 
only  coming  in  for  ha'lf  an  hour,  to  pack  my 
portmanteau.     Where's  Peterson?' 

'In  the  dinin'-room,  cir;  but  please,  Sir,  Jou 
musn't — ' 

rhe  girl  made  a  feeble  effort  ,to  intercept  Mr. 
Marchmont,  in  accordance  with  the  steward's 
special  orders;  which  were  that  Paul  should, 
upon  no  pr«teQie  wbatcreri  be  mSerQd  to  OQ(«r 


JOHN  MARCHMONT'S  LEGACY. 


161 


that  house.  But  the  artist  snatched  the  candle- 
stick from  her  hand,  and  went  away  toward  the 
dining-room ,  leaving  h&r  to  stare  after  him  in  stu- 
pid amazement. 

Paul  found  his  ralet  Peterson,  taking  what  he 
called  a  snack,  in  the  dining  room.  A  cloth  was 
spread  upon  the  corner  of  the  ta^^le;  and  there 
was  a  fore-quarter  of  cold,  roast  lamb,  a  bottle 
of  French  brandy,  and  a  decanter  haff  full  oi 
Madeira  before  the  valet.  He  started  as  his  mas- 
ter entered  the  room,  and  looked  up,  not  very 
respectfully;  but  with  no  unfriendly  glance. 

^Give  me  half  a  tumbler  of  that  brandy,  Pe-, 
tersoD,'  said  Mr.  Marchmont. 

The  man  obeyed;  and  Paul  drained  the  fiery 
spirit  as   if  it  had  been  so  much  water. 

•Why  didn't  you  go  away  with  the  rest?'  he 
•asked,  as  he  set  down  the  empty  glass. 

'It's  only  rats,  Sir,  that  ru'i  away  from  a  fall  ; 
ing  house.  [  stopped,  thinkin' you'd  be  going; 
away  somewhere,  and  that  you'd  want  me.'  ' 

The  solid  and  unvarnished  truth  of  the  matter  I 
was  that  Peterson  had  taken  it  for  granted  thai  ! 
his  master  had  made  an  excellent  purse  against 
this  evil  day,  and  would  be  ready  to  start  for  tin- 
Contiijent  jor  America,  there  to  lead  a  pleasant 
life  upon  the  proceeds  of  his  iniquity.  The  valet 
never  imagined  his  master  guilty  of  such  besot- 
ted folly  as  to  leave  himself  unprepared  for  this 
catastrophe. 

"1  thought  you  might  still  want  mc.  Sir,'  he 
said,  'and  wherever  you're  going  I'm  quite  read}  ! 
to  go  to.     You've  been  a  good  master  to  me,  Sir.  | 
and  I  don't  want  to  leave  a  gjod  master  because  j 
things  go  against  him.'  | 

/  Paul  Marchmont  shook  his  head,  and  held  out  1 
the  empty  tumbler,  for  his  servant  to  pour  more  i 
brandy  into  it.  \ 

'1  am  going  away,*  he  said;  'but    I  want  no  j 
servant  where  I'm  going;  but  I'm  grateful  to  yon  ( 
for  your  offer,  Peterson.    Will  you  come  up  stairs 
with  me?    I  want  to  pack  a  few  thin^^s.'  | 

'They're  all  packed.  Sir.  I  knew  you'd  be  [ 
leaving,  and  I've  packed  everything.'  j 

•My  dressing-case.'' 

'Yes,  Sir.     You've  got  the  key  of  that.'  ' 

'Yes;  1  know,  1  know.'  j 

Paul  Marchmont  was  silent  for  a  few  minutes,  ( 
thinking.     Every  thing  that  he  had   in  the  way  j 
of  personal   properly   of  any  value  was    in  the  / 
dres.siiig-case  of   which  he  had  spoken.     Then-  ! 
was  five  or  six  hundred  pounds  worth,  of  jewelry  \ 
in  .Mr.  Marchmont's  dressing-case;  for  ti.c  firs   i 
instuict   of  the    jiovveau  riche  exhib^fs    itself  in  j 
diamond    shirt-studs;     cameo    rings;     malachite  , 
death's  heads    with  emerald  eyes;  gro  esque  and  ; 
pleasing  charms  in  the  form  of  coflins,  coal-scui- 
iles,  and  hob-nailed  boots;  fantastical  lockets  o1  ], 
ruby  and  enamel;  wonderful  bands  of  massive  ycl-{ 
low  gold,  studded  with  diamonds  whcr«in  to  insert  ! 
i.he  two  ends  of  (limsy  lace  cravats.    Mr.  March-! 
mont  reflected  upon  the  amount  of  his  possessions, 
and    their  security  in    the  jewel-drawer  of   his 
dressing-case.     The  dressing  case  was  furnished 
with  a  CImbh's  lock,  the  key  of  which  he  carried 
"1  his  waistcoat  pocket.     Yes,  it  was  all  safe.        ; 

'Look  here,  Peterson,' said  Paul  Marchmont;; 
'I  think   I  shall  sleep  at  Mrs.  Weston's  to-ni^ht. 
I  should  like  you  to  take  my  dressing-case  down  j 
there  st once.' 

'And  how  about  the  other  luggage,  Sir — the, 
portmanteaus  and  liat-boxes.''  ; 

•Wever  mind  those.     1   want   you  to  put  the 
dreasing-cBsc  safe  in  my  Eistcr's  'hands.     I    can 
21 


send  here  for  the  rest  to-morrow  morning.  You 
needn't  wait  for  me  now.  I'll  follow  you  in  ).alf 
an  hour.' 

'Yes,  Sir.  You  want  the  dressing-case  carried  to 
Mrs.  Weston's  house,  and  I'm  to  wait  for  you  there.' 

'Yes;  you  can  wait  for  me.' 

•But  is  there  nothing  else  I  can  do.  Sir.'' 

'Nothing  whatever.  I've  only  got  to  collect  a 
ew  papers,  and  then  I  shall  follow  you.' 

'Yes,  sir.' 

The  .discreet  Peterson  bowed,  and  retired  (o 
fetch  the  dressing-case.  Me  put  his  owif  con- 
sfruction  upon  i\lr.  Marchmont's  evident  desiie 
to  get  rid  of  him,  and  to  be  left  alone  at  the 
Powers.  Paul  had,  of  course,  made  a  pursc, 
tnd  had  doubtless  put  his  money  away  in  scniO 
very  artful  hiding-place,  whence  he  now  wanted 
fo  take  it  at  his  lei-<ur«.  He  had  stuffed  one.  of 
his  pillows  with  bank  notes,  perhaps;  or  had 
lidden  a  cash-box  behind  the  tapestry  in  his  bed- 
jhamljer;  or  had  buried  a  bag  of  gold  in  the 
lower-garden  below  the  terrace.  Mr  Peterson 
went  up  stairs  to  Paul's  dressing-room,  put  his 
hand  through  the  strap  of  the  dressing-case, 
which  was  very  heavy,  went  down  stairs  aM,ain, 
net  his  master  in  the  hall,  and  went  ^ut  at  the 
lobby  door. 

Paul  locked  the  door  upon  his  valet,  and  then 
went  back  into  the  lonely  house,  where  the  tick- 
ing of  the  clocks  in  the  tenaniless  rooms  sound- 
ed unnaturally  loud  in  the  stillness.  All  the 
vindows  had  been  broken;  and  though  the  shut- 
ters were  shut,  the  cold  night  air  blew  ip  fit 
many  a  crack  and  cranny;  and  well-nigh  extin- 
guished Mr.  Marchmont's  candle  as  he  wei,t 
iVom  room  to  room  looking  about  him. 

He  went  into  the  western  drawing-room,  and 
liiihted  some  of  the  lamps  in  the  principal  chan- 
delier. 7'he  shutters  wfere  shut,  for  the  wii. flows 
here,  as  well  as  elsewhere,  had  been  broken; 
I'ragments  of  shivered  glass,  great,  jag-ged  stones, 
inA  handfnis  of  gravel,  lay  about  upon  the,  rich 
...arpet — the  velvet-pile  which  he  had  chosen  with 
such  artistic  taste,  such  careful  deliberation.  He 
irt  the  lamps  and  \valked  about  the  room,  look- 
ing for  the  last  time  at  his  treasures.  Yes.  hh 
treasures.  It  was  he  who  had  transformed  this 
chamber  from  a  prim,  old-fashioned  sittina-room. 
with  quaint,  japanned  cabinets,  and  shabby, 
chintz-cushioned  cane-chairs,  cracked  Indiatt 
vases,  and  a  faded  carpet,  into  a  saloon  thai 
would  have  been  no  discredit  to  Buckingham 
Palace  or  Alton  Towers. 

It  was  he  who  had  made  the  place  what  it  was. 
He  had  squandered  thj  savings  of  Mary's  minor- 
iiy  upon  pictures  that  the  richest  colleitor  in 
Kngland  might  have  been  proud  to  own;  upon 
porcelain  that  would  have  been  worthy  of  a  place 
i'l  the  Vienna  Museum  or  the  Bernal  C>)llcc:ion. 
He  had  done  this,  and  these  things  were  to  pass 
into  the  possession  of  the  man  he  hated — the  fiery 
voung  soldier  who  had  horsewhipped  him  before  . 
the  face  of  wondering  Lincolnshire.  He  walkec' 
about  the  room,  thinking  of  his  life  since  he  hao 
rome  into  possession  of  this  place,  and  of  what  it 
had  been  before  that  time,  and  what  it  must  be 
again,  unless  he  summoned  up  a  desperate  cour- 
age—and killed  himself. 

His  heart  beat  fa«t  and  loud,  and  he  felt  an  icy 
'  chill  creeping  slowly  through  his  every  vein  as  he 
I  thought  of  this.  How  was  he  to  kill  himself 
\  He  had  no  poison  in  his  possession — no  deadiv 
!  drug  that  would  reduce  the  agony  of  death  to  the 
'  space  of  a  lightning*!  flash.     Thtr»  vrera  ri«*-ol«. 


162 


JOHN  MARCHMONT'S  LEGACY. 


rare  g;etn<  of  choicest  workmanship,  in  one  of 
the  buhl-cabinets  m  that  Very  room;  there  was  a 
fowlin:;-ptece  and  aniinutiilion  in  Mr.  ftlarch- 
moiit's  ilressing-roum;  but  the  artist  was  not  ex- 
pert vvitn  the  use  of  fire-arms,  und  hie  migut  fail 
in  the  aHempt  to  blow  out  his  brains,  and  only 
maim  or  dishgure  himself  hideously.  There  was 
the  river — the  s  ow,  bjack  river;  but,  then, 
drowriinj^  is  a  slow  death,  and  Heaven  only 
knows  how  long  the  agony  may  seen  to  the 
wretch  who  endures  it!  Alas!  the  gha*tly  truth 
of  thedmatter  is,  that  Mr  Marchmont  v/as  afraid 
of  death  Look  at  the  King  of  IVriors  how  h(- 
would  he  could  nut  discover  any  pleasing  aspect 
under  which  he  could  meet  the  grim  monarch 
wilhbtit  flinching. 

He  hjoUed  at  life;  but  if  life  was  less  terrible 
than  deith,  it  was  not  less  dreary.  He  looked 
forward  with  a  shudiler  to  see — what?  Hurai  ia- 
tion,  disgrace,  perhaps  punishment — life-long 
transportation,  it  may  be;  fur  this  base  conspiracy 
might  he  a  criminal  oifecse,  amenable  to  crfminal 
la-v.  Or.  escaping  a'l  this,  what  was  there  for 
him?  What  was  there  for  ibis  man  even  then? 
For  forty  years  he  had  been  steeped  to  the  lips  in 
poverty,  and  had  endured  his  life.  He  looked  back 
now,  and  wondered  how  it.  was  that  he  had  been 
patient;  he  wondered  why  he  had  not  made  an 
end  of  himself  and  his  obscure  trouble  twenty 
years  before  this  night.  But  after  looking  back  a 
little  longer,  he  saw  the  star  which  had  illumined 
the  darkness  of  that  miserable  and  sordid  exist- 
ence, and  he  understood  (he  reason  of  his  endur- 
ance%.  He  had  hoped.  Day  after  day  he  had  got 
up  to  go  through  the  same  troubles,  to  endure  the 
same  humiliations;  but  every  day,  when  his 
life  had  been  hardest  to  him,  he  had  said, 'To- 
morrow \  may  be  master  of  Marchmont  Towers." 
But  he  coiiid  never  hope  this  any  more;  he  could 
not  go  back  to  watch  and  wait  again,  beguiled  by 
the  faint  hope  that  Mary  Arundel's  son  might 
die,  and  to  hear  by-and-by  that  other  children 
were  born  to  her  to  widen  the  great  gulf  betwixt 
him  and  fortune. 

He  looked  back,  and  he  saw  that  he  had  livod 
from  day  to  day,  from  year  to  year,  lured  on  by 
this  one  hope;  He  looked  forward,  and  he  saw 
that  he  could  not  live  without  it. 

There  had  never  been  but  this  one  road  to  good 
fortune  open  to  him.  He  was  a  clever  man,  but 
his  v/as  not  the  cleverness  which  can  transmute 
itself  into  solid  cash.  He  could  only  paint  indif- 
ferent pictures;  and  he  had  existed  long  enough 
by  picture  painting  to  realize  the  utter  hopeless- 
ness of  success  in  that  career. 

He  had  borne  his  life  while  he  was  in  it,  but 
he  could  not  bear  to  go  back  to  it.  He  had  been 
out  of  it,  and  had  tasted  another  phase  of  exist- 
ence; and  he  could  see  it  all  now  plainly,  as  if  he 
had  been  a  spectator  sitting  in  the  boxes  and 
watching  a  dreary  play  performed  upon  a  stage 
before  him.  The  performers  in  the  remotest 
provincial  theatre  believe  in  the  play  they  are 
acting.  The  omnipotence  of  passion  creates  dewy 
groves  and  moonlit  atmospheres,  ducal  robes  and 
beautiful  women.  But  the  metropolitan  specta- 
tor, in  whose  mind  the  memory  of  better  things  is 
still  fresh,  sees  that  moonlit  trees  are  poor  dis- 
temper daubs,  pushed  on  by  dirty  carpenters,  and 
the  moon  a  green  bottle  borrowed  from  a  drug- 
gist's shop;  the  ducal  robes,  colton  velvet  and 
tarnis'hed  tinsel;  and  the  heroine  of  the  drama  old 
and  ugly. 

So    Paul    looked    at    the    life   he    had    en- 


dured, and  wondered  as  he  saw  how  horrible  it 
was. 

He  could  sec  the  shabby  lodging,  the   faded 
furniture,  the  miserab  e  htindful  of  fire  struggling 
with  thf-  smoke  in  a  shallow  grate,  that  had  been 
half  blocked  up  with  bricks  by  some  former  ten- 
ant as  badly  o^Fas  him«elf.     He  could  look  back 
at  that  dismal  room,  with  tlie  uily  paper  on  the 
walls,  the  scanty  curtains  flapping  in  the  wind 
that  they  pretended  to  shut  out;  the  figure  of  his 
mother  silting  near  the  fire-place,  with  that  pale, 
anxious  t'ace,  which   was  a  perpetual  complaint 
against  hardship  and  discomfort.     He  could  see 
his  sister  standing  at  the   window  in   the  dusky 
twilight,  patching   up  some   worn-out  garment, 
I  and  straining  her  eyes  for  the  sake  of  economiz- 
!  lUg  in  the  matter  of  hall  an  inch  of  candle.  And 
!  the  street  below  the  window — the  shabby-genteel 
!  street,  with  a  dingy  shop  breaking  out  here  and 
I  there,  and  cliildren  playing  on  the  door-steps,  and 
!  a    muflin-bell  jingling   through  the  evening  fog, 
;  and  a  melancholy  Italian  grinding  'Home,  sweet 
!-  Home!'  in  the  patch  of  lighted  road  opposite  the 
:  pawnbroker's.     He  saw   it  all;  and  it  was  all 
;  alike  sordid,  miserable,  hopeless. 
i      Paul  Marchmont  had  never  sunk  so  low  as  his 
;  cousin  John.     He  had  never  descended  so  far  in 
J  the  social  scale  as  to  carry  a  banner  at  Drury 
I  Lane,  or  to  live  in  one  room  in   Oakley  Street, 
I  Lambeth.     But  there  had  been  times  when  to  pay 
1  the  rent  of  three  rooms  had  been  next  kin  to  an 
i  impossibility  to  the  artist,  and  when  the  honora- 
i  rium  of  a  shilling  a  night  would  have  been  very 
!  acceptable  to  him.     He  had  drained  the  cup  of 
!  poverty  to  the  dregs;  and  now  the  cup  was  filled 
I  again,  and  the  bitter  draught  was  offered  to  him. 
;      He  must  drink  that,  or  another  potion — a  sleep- 
I  ing  draught,  which   is  commonly  called  Death. 
I  He  must  die  I    But  how?    His  coward  heart  sank 
las  the  horrible  alternative  pressed  closer  upon 
;  nim.     He  must  die — to-night — at  once — in  that 
I  house;  so  that  when  they  came  in  the  morning  to 
I  eject  him  they  would  have  little  trouble;  they 
\  would  only  have  to  carry  out  a  corpse. 
■      He  walked  up  and  down  the  room,  biting  his 
I  finger-nails  to  the  quick,  but  coming  to  no.  reso- 
i  liition,  until  he  was  interrupted  by  the  ringing 
''  of  the  bell  at  the  lobby-door.    It  was  the  mes- 
1  sengcr  from  his  sister,  no  doubt.     Paul  drew  his 
'.  watch  from  bis  waistcoat  pocket,  unfastened  his 
i  chain,  took  a  set  of  gold  studs  from  the  breast 
of  his  shirt,  and  a  signet-ring  from   his  finger; 
then  he  sat  down  at  a  writing-table,  and  packed 
the  watch  and  chain,  the  studs  and  signet-ring, 
and  a  bunch  of  keys,  in  a  large  envelope.     He 
sealed  this  packet,  and  addressed  it  to  his  sister; 
then  he  took  a  candle  and  went   to  the   lobby.. 
Mrs.  "Weston  had  sent   a   young  man  who  was  . 
an  assistant  and  pupil  of  her  husband's — a  good- 
tempered  young  fellow,  who  willingly  served  her 
in  her  hour  of  trouble.    Paul  gave  this  young 
man  the  key  of  his  dressing-case  and  packet. 

'You  will  be  sure  and  put  that  in  my  sister's 
hands,' he  said. 

'Oh  yes,  Sir.     Mrs.  Weston  gave  me  this  letter 
for  you.  Sir.     Am  I  to  wait  for  an  answer?' 
'No;  there  will  be  no  answer.     Good-night.' 
'Good-night,  Sir.' 

The  young  man  went  away,  and  Paul  March- 
mont beard  him  whistle  a  popular  melody  as  he 
walked  along  the  cloistered  way  and  out  of  the 
quadrangle  by  a  low  archway  commonly  used  bj 
the  trades-people  who  came  to  the  Towers. 
The  artist  stood  and  Jistcucd  to  the  young 


JOHN  MARCH  MONT'S  LEGACY. 


1C3 


man's  departing  footsteps.    Then,  with  a  horri- :  ble  faces,  rigid  as  the  Destiny  whosii  lypc  they 

ble  thrill  of  anguish,  he  remembered  that  he  had  |  were;  ghastly  Germanic  demons  and  witches 

seen  his  last  of  human  kind;  he  had  heard  his,  all  the  dread  avengers  that  man,  in  the  know!- 
last  of  human  voices  :  for  he  was  to  kill  himself  edge  of  bis  own  wickedness,  has  ever  shadowed 
that  night.  He  stood  in  the  dark  lobby,  looking ;  fur  himself  out  of  the  darkness  of  his  ignorant 
out  into  the  quadrangle.  He  was  quite  alone  in  mind,  swelled  that  ghastly  crowd,  until  The  art- 
the  house;  for  ihe  girl  who  had  let  him  in  was  in  ;  ist's  brain  reeled,  ar.d  he  was  fain  to  sit  wiih  his 
the  laundry  with  her  mother.  He  could  see  the  ■  head  in  his  hands,  trying,  by  a  great  eflbrt  of  the 
ligures  of  the  two  women  moving  about  in  a  great :  will,  to  exorcise  these  loailicsome  phantoms.  . 
gas-lit  chamber  upon  the  other  side  of  the  quad- '  'I  must  be  going  mad,'  ha  multercd  to  himself, 
rangle — a  building  which  had  no  communication  ;  'I  am  going  mad.' 

with  the  rest  of  the  house.     He  was  to  die  Ihat^      But  still  the  great  question  was  unansweredi 
night;  and  he  had  not  yet  even  determined  how'  How  was  he  to  kill  himself- 
he  was  to  die.  j      '1  must  settle  that,' he  thought.    <I  dare  not 

He  mechanically  opened  Mrs.  Weston's  letter,  j  think  of  any  thing  that  may  come  afterward. 
It  was  only  a  few  line*,  telling  him  that  Peterson  i  Besides,  what  should  come?  I  A;noio  that  there  is 
had  arrived  with  the  portmanteau  and  dressing-!  nothing.  -Wavcn-t  I  heard  it  demonstrated  by 
case,  and  that  there  would  be  a  comfortable  room  j  cleverer  men  than  I  am  ?  Haven't  I  looked  at  it 
prepared  for  Mr.  Marchmont.  *1  am  so  glad  •  in  every  light,  and  weighed  it  in  every  scait;— al- 
you  have  changed  your  mind,  and  are  comitvg  to  i  ways  with  the  same  result?  Yes;  Lknow  that 
me,  Paul,' Mrs.  Weston  concluded.  'Your  nian-j  there  is  nothing  after  the  one  siiorrpang,  any 
ner  when  we.  parted  to-night  almost  alarmed '  more  than  there  is  pain  in  the  nerve  of  a  tooth 
me.'  when  the  tootli  is  gone.     The  nerve  was  the  soul 

Paul  groaned  aloud  as  he  crushed  the  letter  in  of  the  tooth,  I  suppose;  but  wrench  away  the 
his  hand.  Then  he  went  back  to  the  western  body,  and  the  soul  is  dead.  Why  should  I  bo 
drawing-room.  He  heard  strange  noises  in  the  afraid?  One  short  pain — it  will  seem  long,  I 
empty  rooms  as  he  passed  by  their  open  doors,  daresay — and  then  1. shall  lie  still  for  ever  and 
weird,  creaking  sounds  and  melancholy  moan-  ever,  and  melt  slowly  back  into  the  elements  out 
ings  in  the  wide  chimneys.  It  seemed  as  if  all  ■  of  which  I  v/as  created.  Yes;  I  shall  lie  still — 
the  ghosts  of  Marchmont  Towers  were  astir  to-'  and  be  no.'/iiii^-. ' 

night,  moved  by  an  awful  prescience  of  sonie  '  Paul  iMarcnmont  sat  thinking  of  this  for  a  long 
coming  horror.  time.     Was  it  such  a  great  advantage,  after  all, 

Paul  Marchmont  was  an  atheist;  but  atheism,  ■  this  annihilation,  the  sovereign  good  oftheaihc- 
although  a  very  pleasing  theme  for  a  critical  and  \  ist's  barren  creed?  Jl  seemed  to-night  to  this 
argumentative  discussion  after  a  lobster  supper-  man  as  if  it  would  be  better  to  be  any  thing,  to 
and  unlimited  champagne,  is  but  a  pooi  stall  to  '  suffer  any  anguish,  any  penalty  for  his  sins,  than 
lean  upon  when  the  worn-out  traveler  approaches  j  to  be  blotted  out  for  ever  and  ever  from  any  con- 
the  mysterious  portals  of  the  unknown  land.  '  scious  part  in  the  grand  harmony  of  the  universe. 

The  artist  had  boasted  of  his  belief  in  anniliila- ;  If  he  could  have  believed  in  that" Roman  Catholic 
tion,  and  had  declared  himself  perfectly  satisfied  ^' doctrine  of  purgatory,  and  that  after  cycles  of 
with  a  materialistic  or  pantheistic  aiiangeuicnt^  years  of  sulforing  he  might  rise  at  last, "purified 
of  the  universe,  and  very  indifferent  as  to  v/hc->  from  his  sins,  worthy  to  dwell  among  the  angels, 
ther  he  cropped  up  in  future  years  as  a  summer- }  how  differently  would  death  have  appeared  to 
cabbage  or  a  new  Ilaphael,  so  long  as  the  ten  Shim!  He  might  have  gone  away  to  hirie  himself 
stone  or  so  of  matter  of  which  he  was  composed  >  in  some  foreign  city,  to  perform  paiitnt  daily 
was  made  use  of  some  how  or  other,  and  did  its  '  sacrifices,  humble  acis  of  self-abnegation,  every 
duty  in  the  great  scheme  of  a  scientific  universe.  ( one  of  which  should  be  a  new  figure,  however 
But  oh  !  how  that  empty,  soulless  creed  slipped  '  small  a  one,  to  be  set  against  the  great  sum  of 
away  from  him  now,  when  he  stood  alone  in  this  '>  his  sin. 

lenanlless  house,  shuddering  at  strange  spirit !  But  he  could  not  believe.  There  is  a  vulgar 
noises,  and  horrified  by  a  host  of  mystic  fears —  I  proverb  which  says,  '\  ou  can  not  have  your  loaf 
gigantic,  shapeless  terrors — that  crowded  in  his  i  and  eat  it;' or,  if  proverbs  would  only  be  gram- 
empty,  godless  mind,  and  filled  it  with  their  i  matical,  it  miglit  be  better  worded, 'Yoa  can'not 
hideous  presence  !  !  eat  your  loaf,  und  have  it  to  eat  on  some  future 

He  had  refused  to  believe  in  a  personal  God.  .occasion  '  Neither  can  you  indulge  in'rational- 
He  had  laughed  at  the  idea  that  there  was  any  ;  istic  discussions  or  epigrammatic  pleasan'ry  about 
duiiy  10  whom  the  individual  can  appeal  in  his  the  great  Creator  who  made  you,  and  tKen  turn 
hour  of  grief  or  trouble,  with  the  hope  of  any  to  Him  in  the  dreadful  hour  of  your  de?pjir :  'O 
separate  mercy,  any  special  grace.  He  had  re- i  my  God,  whom  I  have  insulted  and  oH'iidcd,  help 
jecled  the  Cbrisiian's  simple  creed,  and  now — ;  the  miserable  wretch  who  for  twenty  jcjrs  has 
now  that  he  had  floated  away  from  the  shores  ol  ;  obstinately  shut  his  heart  against  Ttiee!'  It  may 
life,  and  felt  hiniseif  borne  upon  an  irresistible  ;  be  thai  God  would  forgive  and  hfarevcn  at  that 
current  to  tbat  mysterious  other  side,  what  did  he  '  last  supreme  moment,  as  He  heard  the  penit<'nt 
tijt  believe  in?  '  thief  upon  the  cross;  but  the  penitent  thief  had 

Every  supt-rstition  that  has  ever  disturbed  f/ie  -  been  a  sinner,  not  a'l  unbeliever,  .ind  he  cnuld 
soul  of  Ignorant  man  lent  some  one  awful  feat-  pray.  The  hard  hea-t  of  the  aihe  st  fre'-zus  in 
ure  to  that  crowd  of  hideous  imag<-8  uprismif  in  i  hi*  breast  when  ho  would  repent  and  put  away 
this  man's  mind.  Awful  Chaldean  gods  and  Ca''-  his  iniquities.  When  he  wo\il<l  fain  turn  ta  his 
thaginian  goddeses,  Ihirsiing  for  the  hot  b/ood  '  offended  Maker,  the  words  iluii  ne  tiii-s  to  -peak 
of  human  sacrifices,  greedy  for  hecatombs  of  die  away  upon  his  lips;  for  the  hubitof  blasphemy 
children  flung  shrieking  into  fitjry  furnuces,  or  .  is  too  strong  upon  him;  he  ran  fting-y  upon  all  the 
torn  limb  from  limb  by  savage  beasts;  Babylonian  ^  mighty  mysteries  of  heaven  and  hell,  but  he  can 
abominations;  Egyptian  Isis  and  Osiris;  classical  '  not  pray. 
diTioities,  wilt)  flamiDg;  swords  and  pale  impassi-,     Paul  Marchmont  could  Dot^fasbion  a  prayer* 


164 


JOHN  MARCHMONT'S  LEGACY. 


fjorrible  witticisms  arose  up  tetween  him  and  ^  Ah,  how  pretty  Ihcy  were  !  How  elegant  he 
'he  words  he  would  have  spoken — ghastij  to?i' had  made  thi;m  in  his  reckless  disfegard  of  ex- 
'.ncfs,  that  had  seemed  so  brilliant  ai  a  lamp-lit ^  perse,  his  artistic  delight  in  the  task  of  beautifi- 
dinner-table,  spoken  to  a  joyous  accompaniment,  cation !  There  were  no  t-liutters  here,  and  the 
of  champagne-corks  and  laughter.  Ah  me!  the '{summer  breeze  blew  in  through  the  broken  win- 
world  was  behind  this  man  now,  with  all  its  Jdows,  and  stirred  the  gauzy  muslin  curtains,  the 
pleasures;  and  he  looked  back  upon  il,  and  gay  chintz  draperies,  the  cloud-like  festoons.of 
tiiouglit  that,  even  when  it  seemed  gayest  and '  silk  and  lace.  Paul  Marchmonl  went  from  rcom 
brightest,  it  was  only  like  a  great  roaring  lair,' to  room  wilh  the  flaring  candle  in  his  hand,  and 
with  flyriiig  lights,  and  noisy  showmen  clamoring  <Svherever  there  were  curtains  or  draperies  about 
.crever  to  a  struggling  crowd.  the  windows,  the  beds,  the  dretsing-lables,  the 

How  should  he  diei*  Should  he  go  up  stairs  low  h/ungini^-chairs,  and  cozy  Utile  s-ofas,  he  set 
..:d  cut  his  throat?  'a  light  to   ihem.     He  did  this  with  wonderful 

He  stood  before  one  of  his  pictures — a  pet  pic- '<  rapidity,  leaving  flames  behind  him  as  he  trav- 
ui-e,  a  girl's  face  by  IVliliais,  looking  through  the'ersed  the  lorg corridor,  and  coming  back  thus  to 
.nooiilight,  fantastically  beautiful.  He  stood  be- /the  stairs.  He  went  do^in  stairs  again,  and 
fore  this  picture,  and  he  felt  one  smarl  separate  |;  returned  to  the  western  drawing-room.  Then 
paog'  amidst  all  his  misery  as  he  remembered /he  blew  out  his  candle,  turned  out  the  gas,  and 
that  Edwaid  and  Mary  Aiundel  were  now  pos-/ waited, 
ijessors  of  this  particular  gem.  /     'How  so(-:i  will  it  come?'  he  thought. 

'They  sha'n't  have'it,' he  muttered  to  himself-,'  The  shur.ers  were  shut,  and  tLe  room  was 
'they  sha "n't  have  <Ais,  at  any  rate.  /quitedatk.  • 

He  look  a  penknife  from  his  pocket,  and  ripped  /     'Shall  I  e-\  pr  have  courage  to  stop  till  it  comes?' 

,e  canvas   across   and   across   savagely,  till  it  1  Paul  Marchmont  thought. 

.iie  in  ribbons  from  the  deep-gilded'lrame.  !      He  groped  his  way  to  the  door,  double-locked 

Then  he  smiled  to  himself,  for  the  first  time  <  it,  and  then  look  the  key  from  the  lock. 

ace  he  had  entered  that  house,  and  his  eyes/  He  went  to  one  of  the  windows,  clambered 
ijshed  wiih- a  sudden  light.  !  upon  a  chaif,  opened  the  top-shutter,  and  flung 

'1  have  lived  like  fcjardanapalus  for  the  last!  the  key  out  through  the  broken  window.  He 
jcar,'  he  cried  aloud,  'and  1  will  die  like  Sarda-l; heard  it  stri.ce  jingling  upon  the  stone  terrace, 
.lapalus!'  .  !  and  then  bound  u  way  Heaven  knows  where. 

'I  here  was  a  fragile  piece  of  furniture  near  him  \  •]  sha'n't  be  able  to  go  out  by  the  door,  at  any 
— an  t/«gt/e.of  marqueterie   work,  loaded    with  ; rate,' he  thought. 

costly  brie  a  hrm.  Oriental  porcelain,  Sevres  and  It  was  quite  dark  in  the  room,  but  outside  it 
Dresden,  o.!d  Chelsea  and  crown  Derby  cups  and  >  was  as  light  as  day.  Mr.  Marchmont  went  away 
saucers,  and  quaiiit  teapots,  crawling  vermin  in  !  fronr  thcgwindow,  feeling  his  way  among  thai, 
Paillissy  war*s,  Indian  monstrosities,  and  all  man- )  chairs  and  tables.  He  <ould  see  the  red  light' 
ner  of  expensive  absurdities,- heaped  together  in;tiirough  the  crevices  of  the  shutters,  and  a  lurid 
criislic  confusion.  Paul  Marchmont  struck  the  {patch  of  sky  through  that  one  window,  the  upper 
slim  leg  of  the  tlugire  v.ilh  his  foot,  and  laughed  )  halt  of  which  he  had  left  .open.  He  sat  down, 
aloud  as  tlie  fi agile  toys  fell  into  a  ruined  heap )  somewhere  near  the  centre  of  the  room,  and 
upon  the  carpet.     He  stamped  upon  the  bioken  / waited. 

china;  and  the  frail  cups  and  saucers  crackled  like  ;     *The  smok^  will  kill  me,'  he  thought.    'I  shall 
egg-shells  under  his  savage  feet.  '.  know  nothing  of  the  fire.' 

'1  will  die  like  Sardanapalus !'  he  cried;  'the  /  He  sat  quite  still.  He  had  trembled  violently 
King  Arbaces  shall  never  rest  in  the  palace  1;,' while  he  had  gone  from  room  to  room  doing 
have  beautified.  his  horrible  work;  but  his  nerves  seemed  steadier 

Tnov/.  Steadier!  why,  he  was  transformed  to  sione  ! 
/Elis  heart  seemed  to  have  stopped  beating;  and 
;  he  only  knew  by  a  sick  anguish,  \j  dull  aching 
'pain,  that  it  was  still  in  his  breast. 

He  sat  waiting  and  thinking.  In  ,that  time  all 
the  long  story  of  the  past  was  acted  befoie  him, 
/  and  he  saw  what  a  wretch  he  had  been.  I  do  not 
I  don't  think  much  of  your  blank  verse,  George  ;;icnow  whether  this  was  penitence;  but  looking  at 
Gordon  Noel   Byron.    Your  lines  end  on  lame  ;  that  enacted  story,  Paul  Marchmont  thought  that 

■  llabies;  your  ten-syllable  blank  verse  lacks  the ;;  his  own  part  in  the  play  was  a  mistake,  and  that 
.sry  ring   of  your   rhymes.     1   wonder  whether  ;:  it  was  a  foolish  thing  to  be  a  villain. 

■  archmont  Towers  is  insured  ?  Yes,  I  remember  ;; 

.:.ying  a  premium  last  Christmas.  They  may  )  When  a  great  flock  of  frightened  people,  with 
fiave  a  sharp  tus^-le  with  the  insurance  companies  ia  fire-engine  out  of  order,  and  drawn  by  whoop- 
though.  Yes,  1  will  die  like  Sardanapalus— no, ;!  jng  men  and  boys,  came  hurrying  up  to  the  Tow- 
nut  like  him,  for  1  have  no  Myrrha  to  mount  the  iers,  they  found  a  blazing  edifice,  which  looked 
pile  and  cling  about  me  to  the  last.  Pshaw!  a  ^^  |ike  an  enchanted  castle — great  stone-framed  winr 
modern  Myrrha  would  leave  Sardanapalus  to  ;;dows  vomiting  flame;  tail  chimneys  toppling  down 
perish  alone,  and  be  off  to  make  herself  safe  with  '/  upon  a  fiery  roof;  molten  lead,  like  water  turned 
the  new  king.'  :!  to  fire,  streaming  in   flaming  cataracts  upon  the 

Paul  snatched  up  the  candle,  and  went  out  into  ;;  terrace;  and  all  the  sky  lit  up  by  that  vast  pile  of 
the  hall.  His  gray  eyes  had  a  strange  light  in  ^  blazing  ruin.  Only  salamanders  could  have  ap- 
them.  His  manner  had  that  feverish  excitement  •;  proached  Marchmdnt  Towers  that  night.  The 
which  the  French  tall  exaltation.  Heran  up  the  ;  Kemberling-  firemen'  and  the  Swampington  fire- 
broad  stairs  leading  to  the  long  corridor,  out  of ;;  n^en^  Yvho  came  by-and-by,  were  neither  sala-* 
which  nis  own  roomsj  and  his  moth^er's  and  sis- ^  inanders  nor  Braidwoods.  They  stood  aloof  and 
ler's  rooms  opcaed.  '  squirted  water  at  the  flames,  and  recoiled  aghast 


'  "Now  order  here 
Vagots,  pine-nute,  and  witlier'd  leaves,  and  such 
Things  as  catcli  tire  with  one  sole  spark; 
Bring  etdar,  too,  and  prtcious  drug8,  and  spices, 
An'l  nilghly  planks,  to  nour^s-h  a  tall  pile; 
Bring  frankincense  and  niyrih,  too;  forit  in 
i'or  a  great  sacrifice  I  build  the  pyre." 


JOHN  MARCHMONT'S  LEGACY.  ICS 

by-and-by  when  the  roof  came  down  like  an  ava-'^in  a  pretty  pastoral  little  nook,  which'was  a  fair 
lanche  of  blazing  timber,  leaving  only  a  gaunt ;  oasis  amidst  the  general  dreariness  of  Lincoln^ 
gigantic  skeleton  of  red  hot  stone  where  March- :  shire. 

mont  Towers  once  had  been.  I  need   scarcely   say  that  the  grand  feature  of 

■this  happy  time  was  the  Babt.  It  will  be  of 
When  it  was  safe  to  venture  in  among  the  ru-  course  easily  understood  that  this  child  stood 
ins — and  this  was  not  for  many  hours  after  the  ^  alone  among  babies.  There  never  lij^d  been  an- 
fire  had  burnt  itstif  out — people  looked  for  Paul  other  such  infant;  it  was  more  than  probable 
Marchmont;  but  amidst  all  that  vast  chaos  of ,  there  would  never  again  be  such  a  one.  In  every 
smouldering  ashes  there  was  nothing  found  that  attribute  of  babyhood  lie  was  a  Iwelvemoi.th  in 
could  be  identified  as  the  remains  of  a  human  be-  advance  of  the  rest  of  his  race.  Prospective 
ing.  'No  one  knew  where  the  artist  had  been  at  greatness  was  stamped  ilpon  his  brow.  He  would 
the  time  of  the  fire,  or  indeed  whether  he  had  ,  be  a  Clive  or  a  Wellington,  unless  indeed  he 
been  in  the  house  at  all;  and  the  popular  opinion  should  have  a  fancy  for  the  Bar  and  the  Wool- 
was,  that  Paul  had  set  fire  to  the  mansion,  and  sack,  in  which  case  he  would  be  a  little  more eru- 
had  fled  aWay  before  the  llames  began  to  spread,  dite  than  Lyndhurst,  a  trifle  more  eloquent  than 
But  Larinia  Weston  knew  better  than  this.  She  Brougham.  All  this  was  palpaole  to  the  meanest 
knew  now  why  her  brother  had  sent  her  every  capacity  in  the  vtry  manner  in  which  the  child 
scrap  of  valuable  property  belonging  to  him.  She  crowed  in  his  nurse's  arms,  or  choked  himself 
understood  now  why  he  had  come  back  to  bid  her  ;  with  farinaceous  food,  or  smiled  recognition  at 
good-night  for  the  second  time,  and  press  his  cold  his  young  father,  or  performed  the  simplest  act 
lips  to  hers.  common  to  infancy. 

I     1  think  Mr.  Sant  would  have  been  pleased  to 

^e«- ;  '       paint  one  of  those  summer  scenes  at  Dangerfield 

The  proud   soldier-lather;  the  pale  young  wife; 

the    handsome,    matronly   graridniother;  and,  as 

CHAPTER   THE  LAST.  the  mystic  centre  of  that  magic  circle,  the  tod- 

'DEAR    18    THE    MEMORT     OF    OUR     WEDDED    lIV  ES. '     l"'"?'  fl^^^""'^'?''"^'^  ^^ ''J'  ''^'•^  "P.'^J   h'^    father 's 

hands,  and  tabling  caricature  strides  in  imitation 
;^Mart  and  Edward  Arundel  saw  the  awful  light   of  papa's  big  steps. 

in  the  sky,  and  heard  the  voices  of  the  people  !  To  my  mii.d,  it  is  a  great  pity  that  children  arc 
shouting  in  the  street  below,  and  calling  to  one  not  children  forever— that  the  pretty  baby-boy  by 
another  that  Marchmont  Towtrs  was  on   fire.  Sant,  all  rosy,  and  Haxen,  and   blue-eyed,  should 

The  young  mistress  of  the  burning  pile  had  very  ever  grow  into  a  great,  angular,  pic-Raphaelitc 
little  concern  for  her  properly.  She  <.nly  kept '  hobadahoy,  horribly  big  and  out  ol  drawing.  But 
saying,  again  and  again,  "Oh,  Edward!  1  hope '  neither  Edward,  nor  Mary,  nor,  above  all,  Mrs. 
there  IS  no  one  in  the  hous^.  God  grant  there  !  Arundel,  were  of  this  opinion.  They  were  as 
may  be  no  one  in  tke  house!'  -eager  for  the  child  to  grow   up  and  enter  for  the 

And   wht  II   the   flames   were  highest,   and   it   great  races  of  this  life,  as  some  speculative  turf 
seemed  by  tiie   light  in  the  sky  as  if  all  Lincoln-;  magnate  who  has  given  a  fancy  price  for  a  year- 
shire  had  been   blazing,  Edward  Arundel's  wife    ling,  and  is^pining  to  see  the  animal  a  far-lamed 
flung  herselt  upon   her  knees,  and  prayed  aloud  ^  three-year-old,  and  winner  of  the  double  event, 
for  any  unhappy  creature  thiit  might  be  in  peril. ;      Before  the  child  had   cut  a  donble-tooth  Mrs. 

Oh,  il  we  could  dare  to  think  thai  this  innocent ,  Arundel,  senior,  had  decided  in  favor  of  Eton  as 
girl's  prayer  was  heard  before  the  throne  of  an  opposed  to  Harrow,  and  was  balancing  the  con- 
awful  Judge,  pleading  for  the  soul,  of  a  wicked  ,  fiicting  advantages  of  classical  Oxford  and  math- 
man  !  cmaticai  Cambridge;  while  Edward  could  not  see 

Early  the  next  morning  Mrs.  Arundel  came  the  baby-boy  rolling  on  the  grass,  with  blue  rib- 
from  Lawford  Grange  with  hel- confidential  maid,  ;  bons  ai.d  sashed  fluttering  in  the  breeze,  without 
and  carritd  oti  her  daughter-in-law  aiid  the  baby  thinking  of  his  son's  future  appearatice  in  the 
on  the  first  stage  of  the  journey  into  Devonshire,  uniform  of  his  own  regiment,  gorgeous  in  the 
Before  she  lell  Keoiberlmg  Mary  was  told  that  no  splendid  ciash  of  a  levee  at  St.  James's.  , 
dead  body  IjBid  been  found  among  the  ruins  of  the  '  flow  many  airy  castles  were  erected  in  that 
Towers;  and  this  at^sertion  deluded  her  into  the  happy  time,  with /the  baby  for  the, foundation- 
belief  that  no  unhappy  creature  had  perishrd.  So'stone  of  all  of  them!  The  Baby!*  Why,  that 
she  went  to  Dangeificid  happier  than  she  had  definite  article  alone  expresses  an  infinity  of  fool- 
ever  been  since  the  tunny  days  of  her  horicy-  ish  love  and  admiration.  JN'obody  say.'* //if  father, 
moon,  to  wait  there  fur  the  coming  of  Edward  the  husband,  the  mother.  It  is  •my '  lather,  my 
Arundel,  who  was  to  stay  behind  to  see  hichaid  husband,  as  the  case  may  be.  But  every  baby, 
Pauleltc  and  Mr.  Gorinby,  and  to  secure  the  tes- ;  from  St.  Giles's  to  Belgravia.  from  Tyburnia  to 
timony  of  Mr.  Weston  and  Betsy  Murrcl  with  a  ;  St.  Luke's,  is  'the'  baby.  The  infant  s  reign  is 
view  to  the  ideniification  of  INIary's  little  Jon,  I  short,  but  his  royalty  is  supreme,  and  no  one  pre- 
who  had  been  neither  registered  nor  christened,      i  siimes  to  question  his  dopoiic  rule. 

1  have  no  need  to  dwell  upon  this  process  IMward  j^iundcl  almost  wor.'-lnped  the  little 
of  ideniification,  registration,  and  chris:ening  child  whose  feeble  cry  he  had  heard  in  the  Or- 
through  which  Master  Edward  Arundel  had  to  :  tober  twilight,  and  hhd  tio<  rectgniztd.  Me  was 
pass  in  the  course  of  the  next  month.  1  had  rather  )  never  tired  of  repioaching  hiinJ'elf  for  this  omis- 
skip  this  dry-as-dust  business,  and  go  on  to  that  )sion.  That  baby-voice  ci'j/iJ  lo  have  awokeJTO  a 
happy   time   which  Edward  and  his  young  wile  (  strange  thrill  in  the  youig  lather's  breast.  4 

spent  together  under 'the  oaks  at  Liangerlield; ,  That  time  at  Dangerfieid  was  the  happiest  pe- 
thal  bright  second  honey  moon  season,  while  they  i  riod  of  Mary'*  life.  All  her  sorrows  had  melted 
were  as  yet  houseless;  for  a  pretty  villa-like  man- ^  away.  They  did  not  tell  her  of  Paul  March- 
sion  was  being  built  on  the  Marchmont  properly,  mont's  suspcct«d  fate;  they  only  told  her  that  her 
faraway  from  the  dank  wood  and  dismal  river,  (enemy  had  disappeared,  and  that  do  oqc  ItDew 


166  JOHN  MARCHMONT'S  LEGACY. 

whither  he  had  gone.  Mary  asked  once,  and;  But  her  husband  took  hr.r  in  his  arras,  and  de- 
once  only,  about  her  step-mother,  and  she  was  clared  that  this  •vvas  only  a  morbid  fancy,  and  that 
told  that  Olivia  was  at  iSwampingtoa  Rectory,  she  was  getting  better  and  stronger  every  day, 
livin"-  with  her  father;  and  that  people  said  she  and  would  live  to  i>ee  her  grandchildren  plajing 
was  "mad.  George  Weston  had  en\igrated  to  under  the  maples  that  sheltered  the  northern  side 
Australia  with  his  wife,  and  his  wile's  mother  of  the  new  villa.  Edward  told  his  wife  this,  and 
and  sister.  There  had  been  no  prosecution  for  he  b'-lieved  in  the  truth  of  what  he  said.  He 
conspiracy;  the  disappearance  of  the  principal  could  not  believe  that  he  was  to  lose  this  young 
criminal  had  rendered  that  unnecessary.  wife,  restored  to  him  after  so  many  trials.    Mary 

This  was  all  that  Mary  ever  heard  of  her  per- ;  did  not  contradict  him  just  then;  but  that  night, 
secutors.  She  did  not  wihh  to  hear  of  them.  She  j  when  he  was  sitting  in  her  room  reading  by  the 
had  foriciven  them  long  ago.  I  think  that,  in  the  ;  light  of  a  shaded  lamp  jifter  she  had  gone  to  bed 
inner  (u-pihs  of  her  innocent  heart,  she  had  for-  ;!  — Mary  went  to  bed  very  early,  by  order  of  the 
••iven  ll  ein  from  the  moment  she  had  fallen  on  ;  doctors,  and,  indeed,  lived  altogether  according 
ner  husband's  breast  in  Hester's  parlor  at  Kern- ;  to  medical  rrgime — she  called  her  husband  to 
beriioi:,   and  had  felt  his   strong   arms   clasped  ;  her. 

about  her,  sheltering  her  from  all  harm  for  ever-  :  'I  want  to  speak  to  you,  dear,'  she  said;  'there 
ujoi.(.,  .  ',  is  something  that  J  must  say  to  you.' 

She  was  very  happy;  and  her  nature,  always  :      The  young  roan  knelt  down  by  his  wife's  bed. 
gentle,  seemed  sublimated  by  the  sulierings  she;      'What  is  it,  darling  ?' he  asked, 
had   endured,   and  already  akin   to   that   of  the  ;      'You  know  what  v^e  said  to-day,  Edward  ?' 
angels.     Alas,  this  was  Edward  Arundel's  chief ;      'What,  darling.'     We  say  so  many  things  every 
sorrow  !     This  young  wife,  so  precious  to  him  in    day — we  are  so  happy  together,  and  have  so  much 
her   fading   loveliness,  vvas   slipping  av/ay  from  ;  to  talk  about.' 

him,  even  in  the  hour  when  they  were  happiest  ;|  'tiut  you  retiiember,  Edward — you  remem- 
together;  was  separated  from  him  even  when  they  ^  ber  what  I  said  about  never  seeing  the  .Syca- 
were  most  uni'ed.  She  was  separated  from  him  ^  mores  .'  Ah,  don't  stop  me,  dear  love,'  Mary 
by  that  unconquerable  sadness  in  his  heart  which  )  said  reproachfully,  for  Edward  put  his  lips  to 
was  prophetic  of  a  great  sorrow  to  come.  !  hers    to   siay  the    current   of  mournful    words; 

Someiimes,  v/hen  Mary  sav*  her  husband  look-  >  'don't  stop  me,  dear,  for  I  must  speak  to  you. 
ing  at  her  witii  a  mournful  tenderness,  an  almost !  I  want  you  to  know  that  it  imt,st  be,  Edward 
despairing  love  in  his  eyes,  she  would  throw  her- ;  darling:  I  want  you  to  remember  how  happy 
self  into  his  arms,  and  say  to  him  :  i  I  have  been,  and  how  willing  I  am  to  part  with 

♦You  must  remember  how  happy  I  have  been,  iyou,  dear,  since  it  is  God's  will  that  we  should 
Edward.  Oh  my  darling!  promise  me  always  to  | be  parted.  And  there  is  something  else  that  1 
remember  how  happy  1  have  been.'   \  {want   to  say,   Edward.     Grandmamma  told  me 

When  the  first  chill  breezes  of  autumn  blew  !  something — all  about  Belinda.  1  want  you  to 
among  the  Dangerfield  oaks,  Edward  Arundel 'jpromise  me  that  Belinda  shall  be  happy  by-and- 
took.  his  wife  southward,  with  his  mother  and  the  ;  ny;  for  she  has  suffered  so  much,  poor  girl !  And 
inevitable  baby  in  her  train.  They  went  to  Nice, ;  you  will  love  her,  and  she  aviH  love  the  baby, 
and  they  were  very  quiet,  very  happy,  in  the ;  But  you  v/on't  love  her  quite  the  same  way  that 
pretty  southern  town,  with  snow-clad  mountains  J  you  loved  me,  will  you,  dear.'  because  you  never 
behind  them, and  the  purple  Mediterranean  before. ;  knew  her  when  she  was  a  little  child,  and  very 
The  villa  was  building  all  this  lime  in  Lincoln-;  poor.  She  has  never  been  an  orphan,  and  quite 
shire.  Edward's  agent  sent  hini  plans  and  '  lonely,  as  I  have  been.  Y'ou  have  never  been  o/< 
sketches  for  Mrs.  Arundel's  approval;  and  e\ery\  the  world  to  her. 
evening  tiiere  was  some  fresh  talk  about  the  ar-  J 

rangement  of  the  rooms  and  the  laying  out  of\^  The  Sycamores  was  finished  by  the  following 
gardens.  Mary  was  always  pleased  to  see  the*; mid-summer,  but  no  one  took  possession  of  the 
plans  and  diawings,  and  to  discuss  the  progress  <  newly-built  house;  no  brisk  upholsterer's  men 
of  the  work  with  her  husband.  She  would  talk  jcanie  with  thretr-foot  rules  and  pencils  and  mem- 
of  the  billiard-room,  and  the  cozy  little  smoking- !  orandum-books  to  take  measurements  of  windows 
room,  and  the  nurseries  for  the  baby,  which  were  ;  and  floors  :  no  wagons  of  splendid  furature  made 
to  have  a  southern  aspect,  and  every  advantage  i  havoc  of  the  gravel-drive  before  the  principal 
calculated  to  assist  the  development  of  that  rare  |  entrance.  The  only  person  who  came  to  the  new, 
and  marvelous  blossom;  and  she  would  plan  the  j  house  was  a  snuff-taking  crone  from  Stanfield, 
comfortable  afiartments  ihatwere  to  be  specially  who  brought  a  turn-up  bedstead  a  Dutch  clock, 
kept  for  dear  grandmamma,  who  would  of  course  J  and  a  few  minor  articles  ot  furniture,  and  en- 
spend  a  great  deal  of  her  lime  at  the  Sycamores  ;  camped  in  a  corner  of  the  best  bedroom. 

the  new  place  was  to  be  called  the  Sycamores.  <      Edward  Arundel, ^senior,  was  away   in  India, 

But  Edward  could  never  get  his  wife  to  talk  of  a  j  fighting  under  Napier  ami  Outram;  and  Edwaid 
certain  boudoir  opening  into  a  tiny  conservatory,  <  Arundel,  junior,  was  at  Dangerfield,  under  the 
which  he  himself  had  added  on  to  the  original  1  charge  of  his  grandmother.  , 
architect's  plan.  He  could  never  get  Mary  to;  t^erhaps  ihe  most  beautiful  monument  in  one 
speak  of  this  particular  chamber;  and  once,  when  :  of  the  English  cemeteries  at  Nice  is  that  tali 
he  asked  her  some  question  about  the  color  of  the  <  white  maibie  cro,«s  and  kneeling  figure,  before 
draperies,  she  said  to  him,  very  gently  :  ^  which  strangers  paui-e  to  read  an  inscription  to 

ijii^ould    rather  you  would  not  think  of  that   the  memory  of  Mary,  the  beloved  wife  of  Edward 
•k-oom,  darling.'  J  Dangerfield  Arundel, 

'Why,  my  pet.''  '. 

'Because  ii  will  make  you  sorry  afterward.' 

'Mary,  my  darling — ' ♦•♦ 

'Oh,    Elvvard!    you    know — you    must  know, 
dearest— that  1 9h.aU  never  see  that  place?'  j;  . 


JOHN  MARCHMONT'S  LEGACY. 


167 


EPILOGUE. 

Four  years  after  the  completion  of  that  pretty 
stuccoed  villa,  which  seemed  destined  never  to  hie 
inhabi'.ed,  Belinda  Lawford  walked  alone  up  and 
down  the  sheltered  slirubbery-walk  in  the  Grange 
garden  in  the  lading  September  dayli;^lit 

Miss  Lawford  was  taller  and  mure  womanly- 
looking  ttian  she  had  been  on  the  day  of  her  in- 
terrupted weddmg.  '{'he  vivid  bloonrhad  left  her 
cheeks;  but  1  think  she  was  all  the  prettier  be- 
cause of  that  delicate  pallor,  which  gave  a  pen- 
sive cast  to  licr  countenance.  She  was  very  grave, 
and  gentle,  and  good;  but  she  had  never  forgotten 
the  shock  of  that  broken  bridal  ceremonial  in 
liillingsworth  Church. 

The  Mjjor  had  taken  his  eldest  daughter 
abroad  almost  immediately  after  that  July  day; 
and  Belinda  and  her  father  had  traveled  together 
very  peaceful,  exploringquiet  Belgian  cities,  look- 
ing at  celebrated  altar-pieces  in  dusky  cathedrals, 
and  wandering  round  battle-fields,  which  the  in- 
termingled blood  of  rival  nations  had  once  made 
one  crimson  swamp.  They  had  been  nearly  a 
twelvemonth  absent,  and  then  Belinda  returned 
.to  assist  at  the  marriage  of  a  younger  sister,  and 
to  hear  that  Edward  Arundel's  wife  had  died  of 
a  lingering  pulmonary  complaint  at  Nice. 

She  was  told  this,  and  she  was  told  how  Olivia 
Marchmont  still  lived  with  her  father  at  Swamp- 
ington,  and  how  day  by  day  she  went  the  same 
round  from  cottage  to  cottage,  visiting  the  sick; 
teaching  little  children,  or  sometimes  rough- 
bearded  men,  to  read  and  write  and  cipher;  read- 
ing to  old  decrepit  pensioners;  listening  to  long 
histories  of  sickness  and  trial;  and  eAhibiling  an 
unwearying  patience  that  was  akin  to  sublimity. 
Passion  had  burned  itself  but  in  this  woman's 
breast,  and  there  was  nothing  in  her  mind  now 
hut  remorse,  and  the  desire  to  perform  a  long 
penance  by  reason  of  which  she  might  in  the  fend 
be  forgiven. 

But  Mrs.  Marchmont  never  visited  any  one 
alone.  Wherever  she  went  Barbara  Simmons 
accompartied  her,  constant  as  her  shadow.  The 
Swampington  people  said  this  was  because  the 
rector's  daughter  was  not  quite  right  in  her  mind; 
and  there  were  limes  when  she  forgot  where  she 
was,  and  would  h;!ve  wandered  away  in  a  pur- 
poseless manner.  Heaven  knows  where,  had  she 
not  been  accompanied  by,  her  faithful  servant. 
Clever  as  the  Swampington  people  and  the  Kcm- 
^berling  people  might  be  in  finding  out  the  busi- 
ness of  their  neighbors,  they  never  knew  that 
Olivia  Marchmont  had  been  consentient  to  the 
hiding  away  of  her  step-daughter.  They  looked 
upon  her,  indeed,  with  considerable  respect,  as  a 
heroine  by  whose  exertions  Paul  Marchmont's 
villainy  had  been  discovered.  In-the  hurry  and 
confusion  of  the  scene  at  Hillingsworth  Church, 
nobody  had  taken  heed  of  Olivia's  incoherent 
scJf-accusations.  Hubert  Arundel  was  therefore 
-pared  the  misery  of  knowing  the  extent  of  his 
daughter's  sin. 

Belinda  EiTwf/rd  came  home  in  order  to  be 
present  at  her  sister's  wed'Mng;  at,d  the  old  life 
began  again  for  iicr,  with  all  the  old  duties  that 
had  once  been  so  pleasant.  She  went  about  them 
very  cheerfully  now.  She  woike.l  for  her  poor 
pensioners,  and  took  the  chief  Imr-'en  of  the 
housekeeping  off  her  mother's  hand".  But  thongh 
ihe  jingled  her  keys  with  a  cheerv  rr.nsic  as  she 
went  about  the  houst,  and  though  "she  often  sang 


to  herself  over  her  work,  the  old  happy  smile 
:  rarely  lit  up  her  face.  She  went  about  her  duties 
rather  like  some  widowed  matron  who  has  lived 
her  life,  than  a  girl  before  whom  the  future  lies, 
mysterious  and  unknown. 

It  has  been  said  that  happiness  comes  to  the 
slcepcr-^-the  meaning  of  which  proverb  I  take  to 
be,  that  Joy  generally  comes  to  us  when  we  least 
look  for  her  lovely  face.  .And  it  was  on  this 
September  afternoon,  when  Belinda  loitered  in 
the  garden  altet-  her  round  of  small  duties  was 
finished,  and  she.  was  free  to  think  or  dream  at 
her  leisure,  that  happiness  came  to  her — unex- 
pected, unhoped  for,  supreme;  for  turning  at  one 
end  of  the  she  It-  red"  alley,  she  saw  Edward  Arun- 
del standing  at  the  other  end,  with  his  hat  in  his 
hand,  and  the  summer  wind  blowing  among  his 
hair 

Miss  Lawford  stopped  quite  still.  The  old- 
fashioned  gard<-n  reeled  before  her  eyes,  and  the 
hard  graveled  path  seemed  to  become  a  quaking 
bog.  She  could  not  move;  she  stood  still  and 
waited  while  Edward  came  toward  her. 

'Letifia  has  told  me  about  you,  Linda,'  he 
said; 'she  has  told  mo  how  true  and  noble  you 
have  been;- and  she  sent  me  here  to  look  for  a 

wife,  to  make  new  sunshine  in  my  empty  home 

a,  young   mother  to   smile   upon  my  motherless 
boy.' 

Edward  and  Belinda  walked  up  and  down  the 
sheltered  alley  for  a  long  time,  talking  a  great 
deal  of  the  sad  past,  a  little  of  the  far-seeming 
future:  and  it  was  growing  dusk  before  they  went 
in  at  the  old-fashioned  half-glass  door  leading 
into  the  drawing-room,  where  Mrs.  Lawford  and 
her  younger  daughters  were  sitting,  and  where 
Lydia,  who  was  next  te  Belinda,  and  had  been 
three  years  married  to  the  Curate  of  Hillings- 
worth,  was  nursing  her  second  baby. 
;  'Has  she  said  yes.''  this  young  matron  cried 
>  directly;  for  she  had  been  told  of  Edward's  er- 
rand to  the  Grange; 'but  of  course  she  has.  What 
else  should  she  say,  after  refusing  ail  manner  of 
people,  and  givir.g  herself  thfe  airs  of  an  old 
:  maid.  Yes,  um  pressus  Pops,  urn  Aunty  Lindy's 
going  be  marricdy-parriedy,'  concluded  the 
curate's  wife,  addressing  her  three-months'  old 
baby  in  that  peculiar  patois  which  is  supposed  to 
'  be  intelligible  to  infants  by  reason  of  being  unin- 
telligible  to  every  body  else. 

'IsupposR  you  are  not  aware  that  my  future 
hrother-in-law  is  a  Major.''  said  Belinda's  third 
sisTer,  who  had  been  struggling*with  a  v;irialion 
by  Thalberg,  all  octaves  and  acciden'.Ml^,  and 
who  twisted  herself  round  upon  her  music-stool 
to  address  her  sister.  'I  suppose  you  are  not 
aware  that  you  have  been  talkinglo  Mo  J  t  Arun- 
del, who  has  done  all  manner  ofspiendd  things 
in  the  Punjaub.'  Papa  told  us  all  about  it  f^\c 
minutes  ago.'  . 

It  was  as  much  as  Belinda  could  do  to  support 
the  riamorous  felicitations  of  her  sisters,  tspt- 
rially  the  unmarried  damsels,  who  were  eoocr 
to  exhibit  themselves  in  the  capacity  of  hriLP- 
m^ids;  but  hy-and-by,  after  dinner,  the  curate '« 
wife  drew  her  sisters  away  from  that  .•-hadowy 
windowin  which  Edward  Arundel  and  Belinda 
were  sifting,  and  (ho  lovers  were  left  to  (hem- 
selves.  » 

That  evening  was  rerj  peaceful,  very  ha ppv, 
and  there  were  many  other  evenings  like  it  be- 
fore I/lw  a  rd  and  Belinda  completed  that  cere- 
rhonial  which  they  1  ad  lelt  unfinished  more  than 
five  years  before. 


1G8 


JOHN  MARCHMONT'S  LEOACT. 


The  Sycamores  were  very  prettily  furnished 
under  Belinda's  superintendence;  and  as  Regi- 
nald Arundel  had  lately  married,  Edward's  mo- 
ther came  to  live  wilh  her  younger  son,  and 
brought  with  her  the  idolized  grsindchild,  who 
was  now  a  tall,  yeliow-haired  boy  of  six  years  old. 

There  was  only  one  room  in  the  Sycamores  ! 
which  was  never  tenanted  by  any  one  of  that  lit- ; 
tie  household  except  Edward  himself,  who  kept 
the  key  of  the  little  chan"ii:ier  in  his  writing-desk. ; 
and  only  allowed  the  servants  to  go  in  at  stated  ; 
intervajs  to  keep  every  ihing  bright  and  orderly  ; 
in  the  apartment.  ' 

This  shut-up  chamber  was  the  boudoir  which  ; 
Edward  Arundel  had  planne'd  for  his  first  wife.  | 
He  had  ordered  it  to  be  furnished  with  the  very 
furniture  which  he  had  intended  for  Mary.  The 
rosebuds  and  butterflies  on  the  wails,  the  guipure  ; 
curtains  lined  wilh  pale  blush-rose  silk,  the  few  ; 
chosen  books  in  the  little  cabinet  near  the  fire- ; 
place,  the  Dresden  breakfast-service,  the  statu- j 
ettes  and  pictures,  were  things  he  had  fixed  upon  ' 
long  ago  in  his  own  mind  as  the  decorations  for  ■ 
his  wife's  apartment.  He  went  into  the  roohi  i 
now  and  then,  and  looked  at  his  first  wife's  pic-' 
lure — a  crayon  sketch  taken  in  Lont^on  before ' 
Mary  and  her  husband  started  for  the  south  of. 
France.  He  looked  a  little  wistfully  at  this  picture,  i 
even  when  he  was  happiest  in  the  new  ties  that-; 
bound  him  to  life,  and  all  that  is  brightest  in  life, ' 


Major  Arundel  took  his  eldest  son  into  this 
room  one  day,  when  young  Edward  v/as  eight  or 
nine  3ears  old,  and  showed  the  boy  his  mother's 
portrait. 

'When  you  are  a  man  this  place  will  be  yours, 
Edward,'  the- father  said.  'You  can  give -your 
wife  this  roQm,  although  I  have  never  given  it. to 
mine.  You  will  tell  her  that  it  was  built  for 
your  mother,  and  that  it  was  built  for  her  by  a 
husband  who,  even  when  most  grateful  to  God 
for  everv  new  blessing  he  enjoyed,  never  f eased 
to  be  sorry  for  the  loss  of  his  first  love.'  i 

And  so  1  leave  my  soldier-hero  to  repose  upon 
laurels  that  have  been  hardly  won,  and  secure  in  , 
that  modified  happiness  which  is  chastened  by  .»^ 
Uie  memory  of  soirow.  I  leave  him  with  bright  -' 
children  crowding  round  his  knees,  a  loving  wife 
smiling  at  him  across  those  fair  childish  heads.  I 
leave  him  happy,  and  good,  and  useful,  filling  his 
place  in  the  world,  and  bringing 'up  his  children 
to  be  wise  and  virtuous  men  and  womee  in  the 
days  tiiat  are  to  come.  I  leave  him,  above  all, 
with  the  serene  lamp  of  faith  forever  burning  in 
his  soul,  lighting  the  image  of  that  other  world  in 
which  there  is  neither  marrying  nor  giving  in 
marriage,  and  where  his  dead  wife  will  smile 
upon  him  from  amidst  the  vast  throng  of  angel 
faces— a  child  for  ever  and  ever  before  the  throne 
of  God. 


« 


THE    END. 


